


Tumblr Fills - Teen Wolf

by rightsidethru



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ...which sometimes happens., And they don't grow into something massive and disgustingly complex, Anything after will be coming from my personal Tumblr if people give me prompts, F/M, First fifty-ish 'chapters' are RP writing prompts that I wrote drabbles for, Gen, Holy shit I received a lot of writing prompts when I was on my RP blog., It's been so long that I forgot that my RP partners were a bunch of kinky assholes sometimes. XD, M/M, Not gonna lie: there's Gen stuff in here and pairing stuff and a couple of NSFW stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 40,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Various Tumblr prompts filled re: Teen Wolf from either rightsidethru or the-heart-and-the-wildfire (old Stiles RP blog).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> justmccallmeangel:  
>  _Send me a color and my character will give three things of importance in their life involving it._  
>  *Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> justmccallmeangel:   
> _Send me a color and my character will give three things of importance in their life involving it._  
>  *Pink

Pink is a color that Stiles doesn’t often think about if only because it’s a softer, gentler color—a more feminine one, sure—and it’s now only him and his dad in the house. Once upon a time ago, when his mom was still alive… when the house was filled with decorations and knick-knacks (everything kept minimal now for ease of cleaning, neither one interested in trying for the perfect showroom Better Homes & Gardens, anyway), maybe then there might have been a hint of pink here and there: a woman’s touch. But that’s gone now and things are left cleaner, simpler—starker.

(“More masculine,” Stiles will say—and lie—because having an empty house is still better than catching little glimpses of his mother here and there from the corner of his eye every single day.)

And yet: the color still lingers within Stiles’ life in small, important ways.

Valentine’s Day in first grade and Scott had been forced to stay home from school due to a really bad asthma attack the night before that had him and Mrs. McCall ending up in the ER at two o’clock in the morning. Viewing Stiles as vulnerable without the ever-loyal Scott at his side, the children in the classroom decided to snub the whiskey-eyed child; when it came time to pass out Valentine’s Day cards and to place them in the little personalized bucket attached to the front of each student’s desk, Stiles’ remained empty.

When Claudia had come to pick up her son at the end of the day and had seen an empty pail and a tear-streaked Stiles, she had immediately asked what had happened and, awkwardly and with each word laced with confused hurt, the child had managed to stutter out the story. The woman’s eyes had darkened with fury, but all she had done was kiss the top of her baby boy’s head in sweet affection.

Later on that night, Claudia presented her son with a pink heart cut from construction paper: though the materials were simple, paper and red and pink and silver glitter, the woman had taken an X-Acto knife and had carved a delicately intricate filigree design throughout the entire piece. At the top, Claudia had written in looping cursive ‘To: My Sunshine; Love: Mama.’

It’s been over ten years since then, but Stiles still has the Valentine’s Day heart that his mom made for him. Sometimes it’s hard to look at—a reminder of all that’s he’s lost—but despite the ache that settles deep in his chest, the boy leaves the card exactly where it’s been from the day it was given to him: proudly on display, tucked between the glass and the frame of his mirror. 

…it shouldn’t come as a surprise, then, that the second treasured thing also linked back to Claudia. There was a cardigan that she used to wear, rose-pink and baby-soft, decorated in embroidery that she had done herself and lined with buttons made from mother-of-pearl. It was a delicate thing, not often worn, but a favorite piece of clothing. Stiles knew that his mother was especially happy when she wore it.

A month after the funeral, his father finally managed to clear Claudia’s things from the master bedroom with the help of Mrs. McCall; Stiles never said anything, not even to Scott, but every previous attempt ended with his dad staring blankly at Claudia’s side of the closet: eventually desperate to numb the pain by clinging tight to a bottle of Jack and passing out on the living room’s couch. Mrs. McCall helped him get through it this time around and, coming home from school, Stiles saw box after box after box filled with his mom’s things sitting out on the curb and waiting to be picked up by the Goodwill truck later on that night. It—hurt.

So, movements furtive and keeping one eye on his house, the boy dug through the boxes until he managed to find his mom’s cardigan. Stuffing it quickly into his backpack so the adults wouldn’t see it, Stiles bounded into the house and let his usual energy detract away from any suspicion they might have had. (Later on, only just several days, he went out to the store and bought a small duo of the sachets that his mom used to tuck away in her dresser drawers, folding the thin jacket around the fragrance packets and feeling guilty all the while.)

The guilt’s never abetted but, nevertheless, Stiles has also never given away the cardigan, either—and, on the days when things are particularly bad and thoughts lay heavy within his mind (pressing dark and deep and branching out in patterns that leave him dizzy with lack of focus), Stiles curls around the cardigan and presses his face against the delicate fabric, breathing in the scent of lily-of-the-valley until the world feels steady once more.

And the third—

There’s a certain sort of heaviness to Scott’s weight that Stiles can recognize anywhere as the Alpha climbs up the side of his house to reach the teen’s window. Perhaps it’s the way that his dark-eyed best friend brace himself as he reaches up to grab his next handhold; maybe it’s the way that Scott’s foot settles into the perfect spot as he pushes himself upwards and higher: doesn’t particularly matter, not really, not when the cadence it as familiar to Stiles as his own heartbeat.

He’s waiting for Scott when the other teen slips in through the open window, and that gives the Alpha a brief moment of pause—Stiles waiting for him is unexpected and takes him by surprise, and the teen can’t help that quick flash of amusement in turn—before a sheepish expression settles over Scott’s face. Ah, Stiles thinks and heaves a much-aggrieved sigh (all for show) and sadly shakes his head at his best friend.

“…please?” Scott begs, even as a flush settles over his tanned cheeks, embarrassed and miserable and knowing that he’s probably going to be flunking tomorrow’s test without Stiles’ help because the amber-eyed teen gets how he thinks and explains things so much better.

And, well, how can Stiles honestly say no?

The next day has the teen exhausted, brain fogged and pretty much functioning on caffeine and Adderall alone—but it’s worth it, really, when he and Scott are in Physics and the teacher’s handing out the tests and, before having to start in on his own problems, Stiles catches sight of how the back of his best friend’s neck goes pink with pleasure at actually, finally, being able to understand the questions that are being asked of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> therightfulalpha:  
>  _Leave a “Haunt Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character watching over yours [as a ghost, watching from a distance, or otherwise, feel free to specify.]_

The rotting boards creaked beneath Derek’s heavy boots, every one of the werewolf’s footfalls echoing through the crumbling skeleton of the old Hale house. Stiles watched the alpha with an angry, narrowed gaze and bared his teeth in a gesture that he had quickly learned to adopt from his packmates to express true and genuine displeasure. Because right now? He was  _pissed_.

“How many goddamn times have I told you to stop coming here?! It isn’t healthy, you fucking idiot,” the teenage Emissary snapped out, fist lashing out to punch the werewolf in the shoulder and obviously missing because, what the hell,  _this was now his life_.

Derek ignored him because Derek  _constantly_  ignored Stiles, especially (always) here–yet another thing that the boy had learned to accept, though never with grace–and the teen heaved a silent sigh before stomping off after the werewolf. Every week, like clockwork: the same day, the same time, the same route. Nothing ever changed and it  _terrified_  Stiles, the way that the older man refused to let go. Refused to move on, to finish his grieving, to let his life continue forward. The boy knew that if Derek continued the way he was, he’d stagnant and stall, bury himself in memories and guilt and darkness and once more let it consume his life as it already had at so many different points in his life.

Well,  _fuck that shit_. Stiles wasn’t putting up with it.

The werewolf headed towards the staircase in the foyer, breathing picking up audibly–distressed and it broke Stiles’ heart to see Derek like this, knowing that there wasn’t anything that he could do that would be enough to soothe the pain before Derek closed himself–and paused just before lifting his foot up onto the first step. anguish flickering over his expression. It was there and gone again, as brief as a hummingbird’s kiss, and Stiles wanted–so, so,  _so_  desperately–for Derek not to do this.

“Derek, please. Just… please, stop this.  _Please_. Go back to the loft,” the pack’s Emissary openly begged, fingers curling in the air just above the alpha’s leather jacket–afraid, even now, of what might happen should he actually attempt to  _touch_.

Derek’s foot finally settled on that first step, and then he began to climb.

Wringing his hands anxiously, Stiles followed after the other man. This, too, like Derek’s visits, was clockwork: no one could convince the alpha to stop coming, not even Cora or Peter or Scott, and so Stiles–stubborn to the very last–trailed after him, biting his lower lip worriedly as Derek continued to put himself through hell.

Up and up and up they climb, up to the second story and then the third, all the way to the widow’s walk where traveling hunters had displayed Stiles’ body for all of the pack to see: the traitor child, the boy who ran with wolves that later became their Emissary.

The soot-stained wood was still soaked through with his blood and it was there that Derek would lean his forehead, taking deep, unsteady breaths to draw in the scent that stubbornly lingered as he struggled with some sort of loss that the rest of the pack couldn’t understand–not even Scott, Stiles’ best friend.

Stiles slipped behind the mourning man, wrapping transparent arms as tightly around Derek’s middle as he could possibly manage; wanting so desperately, needing so wantonly, craving so intently for the alpha to actually feel his touch–just this once–the teenager shook his head and lay his cheek flat against the broad expanse of the werewolf’s back. “You need to let me go, you stupid sourwolf. You need to go and  _live_. Please, Derek.  _Please_.”

“I miss you,” Derek whispered.

The teenage ghost squeezed his eyes tight and tried to believe with every fiber of his being into making his arms solid, into making his heart beat, into being  _alive_  once again–even if it was for just a moment, into letting the stupid sourwolf know that he wasn’t alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _Send me a ♮ for my muse’s reaction to yours coming up from behind and wrapping their arms around mine’s waist._

The fight had dragged on for what seemed like hours—probably  _was_  hours, in all honesty, if the slow brush of returning light on the horizon was anything to go by. The ‘wolves were obviously exhausted after their near-constant fighting and Stiles… Stiles just felt like death.

He hadn’t told any of the others about his adventures into the books he’d been slowly sneaking from various libraries over the course of months, returning them after they’d been scanned (so usually just for a night); eBook reader never far from his hand anymore, not even on pack meetings, no one knew that Stiles had been trying to learn how to harness the power of the Spark that Deaton had just once mentioned and never again touched upon—that no one else seemed willing to divulge information on.

On his own, it had been a struggle and mostly an series of trial and effort: failure after failure, hammering his belief into a foundation that couldn’t be shaken… and then it became a pattern of success after success after success. Still, though, Stiles didn’t say anything—not mentioning his self-study, his powers, nothing of the sort: it didn’t quite feel like it was the right… time.

The Redcaps were vicious little bastards, though. More than the pack had initially expected—somehow managing to hide their numbers, squirreling away in dens until ready to ambush them all—and they had all been swarmed in the warehouse district where escape would be difficult. Cornered, trapped, made into prey: but the Redcaps dismissed Stiles as inconsequential, the token pet human sidekick, and focused their attention on the ‘wolves.

When Isaac got dragged down, Stiles did nothing less than react on instinct. The instincts were still new, true enough, but months of practicing had ingrained the familiar surge through marrow and muscle memory, belief and will and body molding his magic as he wished. A scream ripped through the air when Stiles’ fire whip came down on the first Redcap, and creature and ‘wolf both stopped and stared as the hard-eyed boy began to work his way through the mess, wielding his weapon to attack and defend. This was  _his_  pack,  _his_  family and friends,  _his_  territory, and Stiles would be damned if he’d let anyone or anything try to take it away from him again. (And yeah, maybe the therapist his dad made him see after mom died had a point about Stiles having possessiveness issues—but fuck her. Like he was going to stop now.) The point was that these people were  _his_ , and Stiles was going to show these Redcaps just what happened when you messed with what was  _his_.

Hours later, and Stiles’ limbs were constantly from the amount of energy that he had expended, stomach roiling as he fought down exhausted nauseousness—probably needing Gatorade and crackers and, God, his  _bed_. Beautiful, beautiful bed where he could pass the fuck out and sleep for a million years. The amber-eyed teen took a step forward and instantly regretted his decision when his knees finally began to give out from beneath him, collapsing beneath his weight and letting Stiles fall down, down, down towards the ground.

A pair of arms, warm and familiar, came around Stiles’ middle and caught him before he fell very far; they easily supported the boy’s weight, taking it all on, even as Erica’s body pressed snugly against the Spark’s own to make sure that Stiles remained stand. “Got you,” she said, tightening her hold and pressing cheek against his own in a wolfish gesture of comfort. “…though I think we should talk about changing your nickname from Batman to Merlin after tonight.”

Stiles choked on a laugh, wrapping his fingers snugly around the solid strength of the blonde she-wolf’s forearm, and allowed himself to slump back into Erica’s embrace even as the tears of relief began to fall silently from his eyes.

Everything was gonna be all right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _Send me a color and my character will give three things of importance in their life involving it._  
>  *Red

**BLOOD:**  The First Aid Kit in the Stilinski household had always been well-stocked, ever since John had told Claudia that he was going to join the police academy. She did not necessarily worry, but she was—concerned. So the newly married woman had gone out into the local store and bought a large red Tupperware container and bought the things that she thought that she might need to fix on-the-spot or smaller emergencies that didn’t require a hospital visit.

The kit got some use, but not as much as she had been  _concerned_  about while John attended the academy. That changed, however, when John graduated—top of his class and with high honors—and went on to get a job as a deputy at BHPD. A bit more scrapes, bruises that bloomed over his skin on a regular basis, and (once) a nasty cut over his forearm from an attempted robbery—deep enough that it would leave behind a scar but shallow enough that the officer didn’t require stitches on the wound.

Month after month, Claudia added a little bit of this and a little bit of that to the red Tupperware container, knowing that everything would eventually come in handy. (And it did.) When she became pregnant, however, and had Stiles… well, the  _concern_  that the sloe-eyed woman had had for her husband exploded into full-grown  _paranoia_  over her son because—not to anyone’s later surprise or shock—Stiles was a handful as a baby, as a toddler, and as a child.

The First Aid Kit within the red Tupperware continued to grow and develop and become more and more sophisticated, particularly once Scott and Stiles became fast friends and Melissa McCall began offering Claudia more professional medical equipment, especially since she was the one who oftentimes looked after the boys while Melissa worked on getting certified as a nurse.

Now, though: Claudia Stilinski was gone and Stiles had ended up doing a complete overhaul on the First Aid Kit, knowing that he’d be needing to if he continued to play around in the supernatural playground. While his mom’s last update had been pretty good, the kit now resembled something more likely found in a crash kit in the hospital than in someone’s bathroom. But, well… when in Rome.

Kneeling on the ground before the sink and holding his side with his opposite arm, Stiles winced as he began dragging the crimson Tupperware container towards him in short, jerky motions, plastic bottom sliding roughly over the dirty tile of the bathroom floor. Once the kit was out in the open, the teen rested his forehead against the edge of the cool porcelain above him for just a moment before lifting the lid and beginning the process of taking out everything that he’d be needing for the painful poking and prodding ahead.

 **FREEDOM:**  He liked the irony, did it on purpose, never bothered to hide the slow, amused curl of his smirk as he caught visiting packs tracking him with their watchful, predatory gazes. Sometimes Stiles would let it go, knowing that the smirk would be enough; other times, however, he couldn’t help but rub the cliché in just a bit more:

The amber-eyed teen would tug the hoodie up and over his head until he could just barely peek out from beneath the hood’s edge, gaze sly and wickedly amused, even as his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jacket and his weight rocked back and forth on the balls of his sneakered feet, each movement giving off a pointed squ- _eak_ squ- _eak_ squ- _eak_ as rubber soles shifted upon the ground. Eyes meeting those of the visiting Alpha’s, Stiles’ smile deepened just-so, and he would purr out: “Oh,  _Grandmother_ ~ What big  _teeth_  you have!”

But it was the symbolism, too, that Stiles thrived most on–

Midnight come and gone hours before and dawn not long at hand, and–still–all he could feel was the fire in his muscles and the ache in his lungs as the human teenagers ran desperately through the nighttime woods, long legs nowhere managing to keep pace with the wolf pack but still  _there_  nonetheless. He’d run and run and run, and his packmates would tip their heads back and howl to the setting moon, and Stiles would just give his own manic, slightly-unsteady laugh in turn. Not quite a hunt but a thrill all the same, with home in the taste of darkness and the chill of night on his pale skin and the sight of ‘wolves darting through the trees just up ahead.

Children grew up on stories like Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. Grew up hearing cautionary tales about how they weren’t supposed to stray from the path, shouldn’t speak to strangers–and were to always fear the monsters that lay hidden and in waiting in the shadows. But Stiles’ best friend was one of those monsters and the teen had never cared for the beaten trail, anyway. Little Red Riding Hood had come close to being eaten a time or two, but always came back swinging (oftentimes literally and with a bat in hand). The ‘wolves had claimed this Little Red for their own, and he ran fast and far and free with them because he was  _pack_ and this was  _home_  and  _family_  and he finally felt  **whole**  for the first time in years.

 **PASSION:**  Stiles chewed absently on his bottom lip as he flipped through the notes that Deaton had handed over to him earlier that day; the Druid hadn’t had much information to offer–surprising, considering the older man’s own Emissary status and the training that he had received, as well as the records and lore that the Druids kept overall. That was… not only surprising, but also rather concerning. ('Concerning’ being an understatement of epic proportions.) Still: he had handed over what he  _did_  know to Stiles, and…

Well, the teen could only assume that the rest was up to him.

Which was–frankly–a rather daunting prospect.

Snorting quietly to himself, the amber-eyed boy snapped the folder shut before tossing it onto his computer’s table and flopping in a graceless, boneless motion into his own chair. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, to consider his various options, to weigh just where he wanted to start on this new research project that had pretty much been shunted over to him in whole: so many places where he might begin, so little time to actually have to solve this new mystery that had crept into Beacon Hills silently before beginning its wholesale slaughter. Regardless of anything else, Stiles knew that he needed to begin now:

Hooking a foot over the back of his table, the teen dragged himself closer to the front of the desk and finally sat up straight as his gaze zeroed in on his sleeping Macbook. His long fingers lightly brushed over the mousepad to wake the laptop up from its hibernation mode, and the login screen immediately appeared: white box with blinking cursor waiting for Stiles to type in his password and, for the background, a nighttime outline of a forest done in deepening charcoal shades with a werewolf in its Alpha form stalking between the thick, slashing lines, the beast’s crimson gaze glowing brightly through the primordial Darkness.

Every journey begins with a first step.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> familianegotium:  
> I want the K.  
>  _13: Stomach Kiss_

So maybe Stiles had goaded Dean Winchester a little bit (more than a little bit) and maybe he had specifically set up the conversation to lead up to the challenge that would then, of course, end in a bet. Because the teen had spent his formative years around the police force, learning to talk shit from the best of them–including his old man–and though the Winchester was a Hunter and not an officer… there was still that driving need to protect others, to hunt down that which did harm that so often became the iron core of the deputies that Stiles had known and lost over the years.

Hunters and cops: big differences, yeah. But similarities, too, though Dean would have been quick to probably swear up and down and on the Bible to deny those very same comparisons coming from the Sheriff’s son.

But Stiles had tossed down the gauntlet over lunch (double-bacon cheeseburgers, per the norm, and as much as Stiles loved to have junk food away from his dad– _how_  had Dean not keeled over from a heart attack already??): a claim that came with a mischief-laden smirk, amber eyes lit with challenge as he met the older man’s gaze over the table. “Bet I can figure out the identity of, find its lair, and kill deader than dead Beacon Hills’ monster  _du jour_  of the week by lunchtime tomorrow while you’re still stuck trying to figure out what Sam changed the laptop’s password to.”

Didn’t help that Sam had told Stiles the password before heading over to work on the new case two towns over and the teen, ever helpful, had changed the password again on Dean. So: setting the Hunter up from the get-go, but Stiles had always preferred cheating smarter, not harder. Didn’t help, either, that Stiles had hacked into and copied Peter’s personal bestiary the week before and had stayed up late the night before piecing together the clues left at the crime scenes while Command+F-ing keywords through the PDF files to see what hits came up. And, after narrowing things down to a likely beastie… well, Google Earth was really,  _really_  fucking awesome.

Eyebrows lifting as he waited for Dean’s response, Stiles absently ate at one of his curly fries; while he couldn’t guarantee what the Hunter would rise to the challenge and take the bet, the teen still knew what the current set-up looked like… big, experienced, older Hunter versus scrawny, pale teenager who was–apparently–only particularly good for his research abilities. Spinning a curly fry on his finger, Stiles grinned broadly and took a large bite out of the treat when Dean finally leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, and smirked right back: “All right, Stilinski. You’re on. What prize are you thinkin’ about putting on the table?”

“Winner's prerogative,” the whiskey-eyed boy sing-songed in answer as he slipped from the diner’s booth and immediately headed towards the restaurant’s exit. Dean didn’t bother following–still not finished with his own meal–but he watched the boy leave with a furrowed brow and an unsettled, sinking feeling low in his belly. He had the not-so-sneaking suspicion that he just got played… and badly, too.

*

Dean stared at the creature that looked like a giant, misshapen panther with deer horns, upright scales, soggy bird feathers, and a tail so long that it trailed–limp and still and obviously lifeless–into the Beacon Hills Reserve’s lake many feet away. “…what the hell is that,” the Hunter stated blankly, gesturing to the dead monster with his gun before glancing over to a very smug Stiles.

“It’s a Mishepishu,” the teen answered, rocking idly back and forth on the balls of his feet. “They’re usually from the Great Lakes area, but… eh. I guess one ended up here? They’re also sometimes called  _Gichi-anami'e-bizhiw_ which means ‘the fabulous night panther’ and, dude,  _awesome name_  is  _awesome_.” Knowing just how much more aggravated Dean was getting by the minute, Stiles couldn’t resist offering up his own version of ‘awesome name is awesome’ jazz hands, amber eyes gleaming with satisfied mischief in the low light of nighttime.

“That’s… really interesting,” the Hunter answered and rubbed at a temple with the barrel of his gun, tempted–just a little bit–to pull the trigger (either on himself or on Stiles, who really knew?). “But how did you figure out what it was so quickly, manage to find its 'lair’ before the day was even over, and–kid. It’s  _dead_.”

Heaving a much-aggrieved sigh, Stiles pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against and wandered over towards Dean. “I’ve known what it was since three this morning because I actually am pretty freaking awesome at what I do, thankyouverymuch–and, yeah, I totally set you up at the diner with the bet and, no, you’re definitely not getting out of it, sorry. I was able to find its lair because every single source warned against taking its copper, there was an abandoned copper mine out here somewhere and I knew it was near the lake–a little bit of playing around on Google Earth and, voila, insta-perfect hiding place! The Hilton for Mishepishu. And it’s  _dead_  because I  _shot_  it. With my  _gun_. That  _my father_ , the  _Sheriff_ , gave to me when I was  _twelve_. Seriously, does  _everyone_  forget the fact that my dad’s a cop and that I probably more than likely know how to shoot a gun because of his career choice and because I’d have grown up around them for… pretty much as long as I can remember?”

Shaking his head and just–holding off on that discussion for another day (because it  _totally_  wasn’t worth it right now), Stiles walked past Dean and grabbed at the back of the Hunter’s leather jacket, dragging the older man after him as the teen headed back the way they had both come.

“C'mon, Scruffy Winchester. I have  _winnings_  to collect.”

*

In all honesty, it had been genuinely hilarious to see the look on Dean’s face when Stiles had pulled the pair of handcuffs out from his back pocket, dangling them from one finger and purposefully jingling them a bit to fill the small motel room with the seemingly cheery sound. The Hunter had made a quick, jerking motion with his head–maybe to shake it, tell Stiles no, back out before things truly got started–but the teen just quirked an eyebrow silently.

“…fine,” Dean had grit out, tone one hundred percent grudging, because–yeah, the brat had cheated, but he’d been clever about it  _and_  he’d managed to fulfill all of the terms that he’d outlined to the Hunter originally. Which was… impressive, if Dean was being honest with himself (but would never willingly admit aloud).

Which was how things had ended up so topsy-turvy:

There was something so seductively pleasing, absolutely addicting, about the sight of Dean with his hands cuffed to the solid weight of the headboard above them both, shirtless and with muscles stretching and flexing just-so beneath the taut line of his skin. He was–fucking dangerous and predatory and maybe the most broken person that Stiles had ever met, sharp edges that the teen caught sight of from time to time, but puzzles had always been something Stiles loved to do with his mom and, perhaps, he could help put parts of Dean back together again.

His mouth settled over the skin at the Hunter’s ribs, full lips parting just enough to catch the thick layer of muscle between his teeth. He bit down hard enough to bruise before sucking roughly at the flesh: the taste of salt upon his tongue, sweat pooling lower in the hollow of the older man’s navel, beneath the winged arches of Dean’s hipbones. All solid power and lean grace, bared and vulnerable beneath Stiles’ hands and mouth.

It was tempting to take everything that he could have, greedy and wanting and quietly, voraciously hungry… but–

The teen’s warm amber gaze flickered up to meet Dean’s, lashes at half-mast and brushing over the bare tops of his lightly flushed cheekbones:

Stiles’ lips dragged down the man’s chiseled abdomen, dotting the briefest of open-mouthed kisses here and there (lingering just a bit longer when the Hunter’s muscles flexed tellingly beneath his mouth), nipping over an expanse of tanned and scarred skin (nuzzling away the quick sting as Dean’s breathing hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath Stiles’ nimble, clever hands). He loved the feeling of Dean’s muscles beneath his mouth, loved how the older man’s skin arched and stretched and shuddered when Stiles sucked a kiss somewhere particularly sensitive. Loved the taste–sweat, salt, Dean himself (masculine and earthy and still somehow sweet, like cherry pie) upon his tongue, the shape of Dean’s flesh shifting tellingly beneath him.

Eyes meeting and holding Dean’s (his own lighting with a sudden edge of glee-laden intent), the teen idly dipped his tongue into the indent of the other’s navel before letting his mouth wander lower, teeth scraping over the faint trail of hair that eventually ducked beneath the waistband of the Hunter’s snug jeans. He pressed one last kiss, open-mouthed and sloppily wet, to the thin and sensitive skin between the other’s hips–letting him feel the edges of his teeth but not actually leaving a mark at this particular spot–and finally pulled away with a disappointed sigh (because all good things must eventually come to an end).

Looking so much like the cat that had caught the canary, Stiles smirked up at Dean while he rested his pointed chin over the button to the older man’s pants.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haleandheart-blog:  
>  _FIRST THREE IN MY INBOX GET KISSES_  
>  \- *CRASHES THROUGH THE WALL*

The headlong charge had Stiles crossing his arms over his chest, eyebrows going high upon his forehead as the teen’s bright, amber gaze flared with amusement. No one had ever really seemed all  _that_  interested in him—not the way they seemed with all the other people that Stiles typically surrounded himself with—and the… exuberance… that Derek had just displayed at the chance of getting an actual  _kiss_  from the teen was entertaining and flattering both.

A kiss: nothing more, nothing less—and, yeah, that was definitely an ego-stroking realization.

Slowly starting to grin, Stiles allowed his arms to fall down to his sides, fingertips brushing along the tops of his thighs and the rough material of his jeans. “…really didn’t expect this,” the teen eventually commented, keeping his tone light (though the ‘wolf would have been able to hear that slight hitch in Stiles’ breath, the quickening of his pulse, and the subtle spice that deepened his scent and turned it mind-numbingly heady); fingers drumming nervously over his legs, the amber-eyed magic-user leisurely stepped his way closer to Derek—stride by stride—until their chests were just barely brushing.

Tension thrummed in the small distance between them both, making the air harder to breathe even as Stiles tilted his head up that just-needed angle so that his gaze squarely met the older man’s. There was something challenging—a gauntlet thrown—and heated, liquid fire slipping through the whiskey hue of Stiles’ eyes and setting the color burning brighter yet, even as one corner of the boy’s mouth quirked just a bit higher (because there was mischief encoded in Stiles’ DNA, bred through marrow and bone and muscle all, and the teen had never once been able to resist either temptation or the chance to get into trouble).

Closing that artificially-set distance between their bodies, feeling the heat from Derek’s skin even through the various layers of clothes that separated them, Stiles brushed his mouth over the older man’s for just a moment: kiss chaste and lips chapped, the touch was there-and-gone-again, a tease, before the teen settled his body against Derek’s and slotted his mouth against the ‘wolf’s at the same moment, in the same motion—and  _burned_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mahealanixdanny-deactivated2014:  
>  _Our Muses are cuddled under a blanket watching a movie, when all of a sudden my Muse is feeling frisky and decides to slide their hand down your Muse’s pants. Send me your Muse’s reaction._  
>  *Reaction meme; Laughing, Danny hugs Stiles closer to him, sticking his face in Stiles' neck and sucking there while keening up into his touch. (oops)

It seemed like Danny’s sort of karma that the lacrosse goalie was able to zero in on one of Stiles’ largest weaknesses (vampires of the world, take notice). The teen swayed, losing his balance, at the first hint of suction and teeth from Danny’s mouth—and it came to be a near enough thing of faceplanting right in the Hawaiian’s well-sculpted chest.

Catching himself just in time, Stiles braced a white-knuckled hand over the armrest of the other’s living room couch even as he arched his throat in a silent request for more attention from the other boy. “Gonna have to r-rewatch this for the… for the… fuck _yesss_ … the essay,” he still felt the need to warn like the responsible project partner that Stiles truly was, eyes going half-lidded and body shuddering as Stiles felt Danny work a bruise over the pale skin at the bend of the Spark’s throat.

Slipping his fingers into the opening of the other’s boxers in retaliation—Danny nearly ripping the control from him as the press of teeth against the tendon of his throat made his made go blank with static—Stiles brushed his knuckles of the velvety, hardening flesh his touch came in contact with: caressing teasingly, offering no real friction, no relief, just the lightest of touches to let Danny know that he was able to offer a more thorough sort of pleasure. If he wanted to.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patrismilite-deactivated2014050:  
>  _The NSFW Meme List_  
>  Send in ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours pulling mine up over their shoulder

If Stiles was being completely honest with himself… okay, yeah, his current predicament was totally not unexpected and… kind of, maybe,  _perhaps_  deserved, as well. Just a little bit, though. A  _little_ bit.

But his mouth had a habit of running away from him, words falling from his lips without the teen necessarily paying all that close attention to them, so when everyone around him suddenly started getting quiet, Stiles began mentally reviewing just what he’d been spewing for the past several minutes without bothering to shift through his typical brain-mouth filter and—

Oh, Hoooooly God in Heaven, he was so completely and utterly  _fucked_.

Not able to stop himself from squeaking in righteously-earned terror when Chris Argent stepped forward (and, seriously, how the hell had his stupid, stupid brain manage to get onto the topic of Older Men Who I’d Probably Like To Enjoy Climbing Like A Tree; this was all Caitlin’s fault! Caitlin and her ‘oooh, like girls!’ ‘oooh, like boys!’ sexual revolution!) and stared at Stiles with an expression that was flat and unamused. Stiles stared back, light brown eyes perhaps a bit wider than what was the norm, and considered making a run for it.

Before that could happen, however, the teen found himself completely out of sorts, dizzied and out of place and not quite knowing up from down and left from right and where, exactly, the ground was—before the dawning realization came that Chris had tossed Stiles over his shoulder. Like a sack of potatoes!

“ _Hey!!_ “ the boy protested and promptly began to squirm this way and that, giving his best attempt at trying to break free from the Hunter’s solid grasp around his middle. Unfortunately, though—for Stiles—it was obvious that Chris had been well-trained in the Hunter arts and, no matter how hard the teen tried to push and pull and wriggle his way through the older man’s hold on him, nothing would budge.

“Dammit!! Chris, put me down!!”

Sagging back over Chris’ shoulder, Stiles growled in frustration and considered the option of kicking out (fuck the consequences if it meant he’d be able to flee the scene as fast as he feet could carry him: aka, like a bat out of hell) and glared down with a dark scowl tugging at his mouth and twisting it into an unhappy grimace.

Glaring down at…

An idea came to Stiles.

It wasn’t a very  _good_  idea, granted, but it was still an idea. Furthermore, it was better than his current idea—and having no idea at all. Bringing his hand up to gnaw absently at his thumbnail, weighing the pros and cons quickly, things were decided readily enough because…

Well.

“Fuck it,” Stiles muttered.

And bit Chris Argent on the ass.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyxbrother:  
>  _Since memories triggered by scent are the strongest…_  
>  Send my muse a scent and see how they’ll react to it.  
> *Scent Meme: freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

Chocolate chip cookies meant  _home_.

Or, well,  _a_  home. His  _second_  home.

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies meant the warm, reassuring presence of Melissa, relaxing from a day off of work. It meant getting to fight Scott over batter-covered bowls and spoons and a set of beaters (one for each of them, though both Stiles and Scott both attempted to lick as quickly as possible to steal the second beater away from the other boy) and ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that lectured on all of the dangers of Salmonella poisoning that Stiles had come across in the library two weeks ago.

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies meant chocolate chips that were still warm and slightly gooey from the oven, sometimes a bit too hot to actually be eating—though neither Stiles nor Scott ever told Melissa that, willingly and happily putting up with burned tongues and the roofs of their mouths in order to have as many of the so-soft treats as they could possibly get away with. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies meant glasses of milk set out on the table, an assumption that Stiles would already be there with Scott—

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies meant the brush of a mother’s hand that wasn’t his own (a mother’s touch that he’d never feel again) through his hair, against the nape of his neck—a touch that was tolerable in this particular instance and didn’t hurt  _too_  much and would have to move away from (because some things were still too overwhelming and that touch was familiar-but-not and sometimes made the cookies settle solidly in his belly, a heavy weight he comes close to throwing up).

But freshly baked chocolate chip cookies also meant a sugar high Scott, smiling wide and bright with chocolate-smeared lips as he gesticulated grandly while chattering on about whatever that had managed to catch his attention this time (wanting to become a vet when he got older, this was  _definitely_  the job he wanted this time—for real, guys!). Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies meant that the scent lingered later on, even hours later with Stiles slumped comfortably against his best friend: talking him carefully through one of the homework problems they’d been assigned, shifting things just enough for Scott to actually  _get_  it. (Because his best friend wasn’t dumb, no matter what some of the other kids said; people just needed to see that sometimes you had to explain things sideways enough for Scott to understand them. That was all.) 

With chin hooked over the thin curve of the dark-eyed boy’s shoulder, Stiles could breathe in the lingering scent of cookies and chocolate and watch as Scott’s pencil scrawled more and more confidently across their worksheet’s page. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies was the tentative sound of the other boy asking if he got the answer right and Stiles leaning in closer so that Scott could take on more of his weight as he glanced it over. Chocolate chip cookies was the answer of, “Yeah, you totally got it right—dude, you  _owned_  that problem.” and the happy relief in Scott’s laughter as connections finally formed for him to follow for future problems and questions, paths that Stiles had been laying down—brick by brick—for years.

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies was the sleepy weight of Scott pressed in against Stiles in the backseat of the McCalls’ car as Melissa drove Stiles home, was the tired but happy smile that his dad gave to his best friend’s mom as she dropped him off, was the cool press of the ceramic plate against the palms of his hands, against the curve of his fingers, when Melissa gave him some of the batch—“for later.”

Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies was the knowledge that he wasn’t her son, but Melissa McCall still loved him like one.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _3\. Your muse distracts mine from cleaning the house_  
>  *Interruption

One, two, three: his father always gave things three tries before labeling them a pattern, and it was a habit that the Sheriff eventually brought home to share with his family. Claudia had never taken after John’s habit and had tended to scoff playfully at him for it (hadn’t noticed the little black book that her husband took to carrying around with him, certain things about her behavior that he started writing down—notes that came with detailed times of incidents, word-for-word quotes of things his wife couldn’t remember saying later on, a notebook that established a far-reaching pattern of behavior that tightened the skin around John’s eyes with worry and that had, eventually, led to Claudia’s diagnosis and death), but Stiles…? Stiles took to a great many of his dad’s habits like a duck took to water. The ‘one, two, three’ method just happened to be one of the teenager’s favorites.

Like now.

It was the third time that Stiles had tripped over Erica’s golden, furry body in the span of ten minutes—and  _that_ …  _that_  was definitely a pattern, my friends! This time around, Stiles barely managed to catch himself from going flying (the other two times, he hadn’t been so lucky and had carpet burn along the bottom of his chin to prove it) and rounded on the innocent looking she-wolf. Brandishing a Swifter 360° Extendable Handle Duster in one hand like a knight and his sword from Ye Days of Olde, the boy stomped his way back towards the shifted Erica.

” _What??!!_ ” Stiles yelled when he stood before the girl, gesticulating wildly with his cleaning object—and, despite what the company advertised, also sending dust everywhere… which then caused the wolf to sneeze delicately into one warm brown paw. If anything, that just made the Spark angrier still. “You knew that I was supposed to be doing cleaning today! You were supposed to be with the others for training! I knew this! You knew this! But you still insisted on being here and in your wolf form which, okay, fine—whatever, no conversation either.  _But why are you heeereee, Erica??_ ”

Predictably, however, Erica could offer no answers for the boy and, instead, just looked at him with dark brown eyes that held a distant sort of amusement—and it was at that point that Stiles just… surrendered. Braver men over the course of many centuries had thought that they could outsmart the fairer sex—and had failed each and every time, usually causing a war somewhere along the way.

Moaning softly to himself in his misery, Stiles slumped down to the ground and just banged his head against the coffee table’s top. “I’m never going to finish all of my chores at this rate.  _Never_. Not with you insisting on tormenting me along the way, too… I’ll just become a captive within this house, looking longingly outside the living room windows—Outside the sky waits / Beckoning, beckoning / Just beyond the bars… / My cage has many rooms / Damask and dark / Nothing there sings / Not even my Lark—hoping for freedom to come, perhaps, someday in the future… whence all the chores are finally finished.”

”…did you just interrupt your own pitiful monologue to quote lyrics from a musical?”

Stiles paused in his dramatic lamenting, peeking over the curve of a shoulder to see that Erica—now human again—had moved to curl up in his favorite armchair, snagging their throw blanket along the way to cover her nudity (for Stiles’ sake, not her own). “The musical in question is  _Sweeney Todd_. Any mocking you attempt to levy towards me is brushed aside by the sheer awesomeness of a homicidal barber out for revenge and a crazy, lovestruck restaurant owner who both turn people into pies.” Erica took a moment to weigh the validity of the teenager’s statement before eventually nodding in agreement, gesturing at Stiles to continue in his rendition—version— _whatever_  of an overly dramatic monologue.

Before he had the chance to do so, however, Stiles’ eyes narrowed at Erica as he asked her the question he’d been flailing at her for the past half an hour without much luck of receiving an answer in turn. “Why  _did_  you come over today, anyway, Catwoman? You knew that I had house crap to do and couldn’t get away until I finished with everything—thus being offered any resulting opportunity towards freedom.”

The grin that Erica offered Stiles was toothy, and the teenage boy swallowed audibly in reply. “Derek wanted me to help you on your footwork today—said something about your tendency to trip over your own feet or unmoving obstacles, which… well…”

Stiles stared at Erica. Erica stared at Stiles. Stiles allowed his head to thunk back down upon the coffee table. Repeatedly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bipedalreptile-deactivated20140:  
>  _Send me “Oh shit” to see my muses reaction to yours when they walk in as they’re undressing in the changing room._

Out of all of the sounds that Stiles could count on one hand as ‘dreading to hear,’ he had to admit the creak of the bathroom door opening not long after he’d gotten out of the shower—with new change of clothes and towel on the other side of the tiled room,  _of course_ —being pretty high up there on that particular list.

Especially with the roommate that he’d been lumped with.

”Oh, my God!” the Spark yelped and flailed uselessly for several seconds as Jackson swung the door open the rest of the way; the teen could feel his pale skin going bright red in embarrassment at his nudity—because, unfortunately, not everyone apparently had the same comfort level with their bodies as  _certain others_  who had a tendency to go  _skinny dipping_  in Stiles’ favorite river—and Stiles practically lunged across the room to grab at the towel that suddenly felt so much smaller than it usually  _normally_  did.

Clutching the white rectangle of fabric against himself and trying to manfully ignore just how much  _whiter_  the towel looked in comparison to just how  _pink_  Stiles himself currently was, the amber-eyed magic-user continued his wild gesturing while clutching desperately at the towel and trying to make sure that it didn’t fall to the ground—whereupon he’d yet again (unintentionally, Stiles assured you) flash Jackson. “Just. What the hell! The door was closed! You knew that I was taking a shower! You couldn’t wait five minutes for me to come out?!”

Taking his time in perusing the other teen from the tips of his long toes to his bright-crimson ears, Jackson finally just lifted an eyebrow in response and gave an absent shrug. “You were taking too long and I left my favorite cufflinks in here last night.”

Jackson’s answer, on the other hand, had Stiles going absolutely still—even as sheer outrage slowly began to creep into the too-bright hue of his supernaturally colored eyes. The teen cleared his throat, moving his head from side to side to pop the muscles there, hoping that the gesture would settle the power that was slowly creeping its way up through Stiles’ chest. “You… barged in here.  _While I was naked._  For your stupid cufflinks??” he asked—demanded—and narrowed that gaze upon the Shifter’s nonplussed features.

The need to keep his towel in place completely forgotten as it dropped to the floor, Stiles gave a battlecry that would have made Xena proud: grabbing at various bathroom products, whether they be cleaning supplies or things that either boy used for themselves, the magic-user began lobbing anything and everything he could get his hands on at Jackson’s overly smug head. There was the hope, distant though it was, that Stiles’ aim would at least be decent enough to leave a spectacular bruise or two… or three.

”OUT!! OUT!! GET OUT!! OH, MY GOD,  _I HATE YOU SO MUCH_ , REPTAR!!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triskelespirals-deactivated2014:  
>  _Send “Don’t push me away, you need me.” for my character’s response._

Three a.m. seemed to be the time for late night introspective musings. There was a sort of mood that Stiles couldn’t help but default to when midnight ticked past and became something of a silvery-tinged dream, hours gone and barely remembered now: there was a mindset that the teen settled into as the shadows stretched across the carpeted floor of his bedroom and the luminescent numbers on his digital clock counted down the minutes until dawn finally blushed faintly upon the horizon.

Three a.m. brought darker thoughts, darker memories–recollections that were typically tucked away and forgotten about beneath the hot noonday sun, blazing warm upon the back of his neck as he surrounded himself with friends and family and allowed the harsh light of day burn away the gray of twilight until there was nothing left but soot and smoke. And yet, nothing he did could stop such ponderings from returning to him–

So, three a.m. and Stiles couldn’t help but remember the first terrifying brush he had with the Hellhound currently settled so comfortably against the line of his back. There had been blood and screaming and pain, something inside of him flaring brightly and burning white-hot with an intensity that was so pure it could only be associated with a brush from the Divine… and then, too, Stiles had known that something within himself had broken, shattered and irreparable, and the teen realized that he was about to die by being screwed over by demons who couldn’t keep their end of a contract that everyone had initially agreed to. But–more screaming, more terror, more blood and, this time around, none of it his own.

The Hellhound’s touch over Stiles’ cheek had been unexpected, the pain that slowly leeched away even more so. The amber-eyed teen couldn’t stop himself from jerking away in surprise, however, breath catching in shock and pain both, and the creature and snarled gutturally, “Don’t push me away, you need me.” –it had been… terrifying. The flash of crimson, the delicately pointed canines, the black veins that had run up the Hellhound’s arms even as the other never once looked away from Stiles, gaze so very vividly intent and–he didn’t understand the riot of shifting emotion that filled the other’s bright gaze.

Now, however… well, in many ways, Stiles still didn’t quite understand everything that had gone through Derek’s gaze at that moment. Didn’t pretend to understand–then or now. He was confused as to why the Hellhound had decided to spare him, particularly when so many demons had ordered Stiles’ head on a platter, but–Derek had defended him, had stayed, and he seemed happy about it. All of this, none of this: Stiles tried so hard to make sense of it, thoughts running around in circles until they became tangled to the point of irrevocable harm, and yet… nothing seemed to help. Everything stayed as it was and the boy was still as confused as ever, fumbling for answers that would not come.

“Go to sleep,” Derek rumbled from just behind Stiles, settling closer before latching his teeth over the nape of the teen’s neck, leg slinging possessively over Stiles’ thigh even as a hand cupped over the other’s hip. It was a series of gestures that had become all too familiar to Stiles when Derek thought that he was thinking too much and decided he needed to stop–and something inside of himself just… released, let go and slowly began to close his eyes at the growled order–but it was odd, anyway, just how thoroughly the Hellhound crowded into his space, as if he belonged there and always had.

“…I was thinking,” Stiles complained in turn, already more than half-asleep. Derek’s reply came as a hot, unimpressed snort against the nape of the teen’s neck.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vvulfric:  
>  _Send “Don’t push me away, you need me.” for my character’s response._

There is an echoing sort of darkness that throbs within the center of Stiles’ mind. He is lost, pathways fogged and blurred at the corners of his vision: he has stumbled and staggered and fallen to his knees long before now, and it has gotten more and more difficult to force himself upright each and every time he takes a tumble. The teen’s limbs are heavy and it is a curious enough sensation because Stiles knows, somewhere and somehow—a hidden corner within himself that still retains some sort of conscious thought, that remains _himself_ —that none of this is real.

And yet:

He is searching for something, even through the haze. Awareness is coming harder, more difficult to grasp. Stiles still reaches for it, however, holds tight with a desperation that is borne from the knowledge that comes from the fact that once his grip on the smallest sliver of reality is gone…  _he_  is gone. The teen knows, somehow and somewhere deep within himself, that he is failing: he is losing. He is losing himself, is losing to the fox, is failing his friends and family—and yet fighting comes so impossibly nonexistent when it takes everything within Stiles to remember to place one foot in front of the other, step after step after step. Fall after fall after fall.

But there is still that faint tugging that continues to lead him onwards, threaded through memories and thoughts and emotions, quicksilver epiphanies that Stiles brushed aside time after time, too afraid to look at those flashing realizations for the changes that they would bring within himself—and still, deeper, the boy tumbles. Awkward and ungainly and stubbornly refusing to give up even with the hoarse, ringing laughter, mocking as it clangs against his ears, that refuses to cease for what feels like hours on end—always, always,  _always_  the boy follows that faintest brush of  _other_  that somehow manages to feel foreign and familiar and trusted. There is a name attached to that feeling, here and gone again, just on the barest tip of Stiles’ tongue, and he can remember if just for a barest heartbeat of a moment…

Shadows dance across the stone walls of the carved throne room when the teenager finally manages to step through the heavy wooden doors. It reminds him of the old Viking tales he sometimes comes across in his werewolf research, epic tales of long ago with warrior kings that ruled with a different set of morales. Perhaps, then, Stiles knows that he shouldn’t be surprised to see that Derek is here, is seated upon a solid oak throne with elegant gold crown upon his forehead and garbed in ebon-dark wolf skins. The savagery of the scene suits him. The kindness in his eyes suits him even more.

Stiles steps forward yet again, following that insistent tugging that leads him here, to  _Derek_ , to the King on the chessboard, and he stumbles yet again and falls and cannot bear to pick himself up. He is exhausted, tired from fighting the fox, tired from keeping this bit of himself whole and hidden from the spirit, and—there is still so little of himself left.

Derek’s arms settle around Stiles, holding him close, and it is such a strange sensation—the ‘wolf never tactile with the boy—that he struggles faintly to get away. “Don’t push me away. You need me.”

—and… that is true. He does need Derek, can feel the connection thrumming louder, stronger, with the other man’s touch, his closeness—and he  _knows_  this,  _knows_  this connection though his mind purposefully blanks because it’s too much when everything is broken is hurting and he’s barely a person in his own mind—and Stiles finally gives in and slumps against the older man, tucking his face against the solid, tanned curve of the ‘wolf’s neck. “Please,  _please_  bring me back, Sourwolf.”

“I promise,” Derek answers, voice rumbling lowly as the solid, cool weight of his crown presses against the dip of Stiles’ temple and the teen can’t help but think, inner monologue carefully muted,  _oh_.

Checkmate.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _Send “Don’t push me away, you need me.” for my character’s response._

There has always been a certain sort of tension running between Erica and Stiles, muted and lingering in the background but still there nonetheless. It’s understated, neither willing to truly let it get things bad enough to affect pack bonds–and yet, despite their efforts, the grating noise that edges between them is something obvious enough to all who watch their interactions. The blonde she-wolf is very careful never to glance completely in Stiles’ direction, pointedly doesn’t try to catch his glance. Erica is closed off: a fortress, solid and heavy with a gaze that refuses to allow anyone entrance when someone finally manages to catch her eye to send a questioning glance her way.

Stiles, tactile and friendly, always open and approachable and with no concept of personal space–a trait that he’s always had, that Scott’s never bothered to discourage–never touches the blonde girl, never comes near her. He keeps his distance during pack meetings, sitting as far across the room as possible even if there happens to be a space empty and waiting and available on the couch at her side. There are no jokes for Erica, no nicknames, no wide smiles and crinkled eyes: when there is no other choice, Stiles offers the girl the bare minimum, a basic courtesy, and that is all.

The coldness is a mystery, one that only Scott can solve; but he keeps Stiles’ silence, remembers nights staying awake with the other teen because going to bed meant dreaming of the mechanic begging and screaming for mercy, for help, for anyone to come and save him, please God, for the sounds of death when the lift eventually lowers to the point where escape is impossible even without the paralytic agent. Scott remembers the look in Stiles’ eyes when the tow truck came to take away the Jeep his mom used to drive, how careful he had always been with it no matter how many times other people called it a rusting hunk of metal. Scott remembers, too, how long it took bruises to fade over his best friend’s body and how breathing was done gingerly, painfully with a cracked rib from– Scott keeps his silence because Stiles asks it of him and because though they might have joined Derek’s pack in the end, Stiles is still  _his_  and a wolf’s first loyalties never break.

So Stiles and Erica keep their distance from one another, neither acknowledging the winding bit of tension that coils closer still the more contact they’re forced to have with each other. The coil will eventually snap under so much pressure, and all of the pack knows this–but it is something that they are hoping to put off and put off and put off, brushing things aside and praying that the distance and chill with warm and thaw, that a connection will form because pack is  _pack_  and there is something so incredibly unnatural in the way that Erica and Stiles treat each other when pack is something that is supposed to be a secondary limb: a heart that beats, another set of legs that run, arms that pump back and forth in movement, eyes that track with a narrowed sense of satisfaction in the hunt and the power that comes from it all. But here, now, there is only… disconnect.

Remains so even as the duo are ambushed while out on a routine patrol–sent out together in hopes to try to mend some bridges, but there had only been terse words and wide spaces between each teen as they moved through the shadowscape-filled night–but soon each are fighting for their own lives, for each others’, are pressed back to back even as Stiles steps away, attempts to push himself further away from the blonde she-wolf–

“Don’t push me away; you need me.”

–and her fingers wrap tight around his hand, keeping him close because pack is  ** _pack_**  and pack is always stronger when together, and through the supernatural warmth of Erica’s skin, Stiles can feel the singing bonds that connect each packmate to each other, to the Alpha: strands woven by affection and time and trust, of rocky beginnings and angry words, of desperation to save, bridges connecting one another with experiences shared, scents remembered, memories offered up on late nights when credits start rolling and a scene has struck a chord and there is a specific type of need to  _share_  with others–

Stiles’ Spark is more a supernova as it lights the night sky and the howls from the others fill the air, promises that help is on the way, eerie and echoing and so very familiar (and not needed for the spidren are less than ash around Erica and Stiles both, and the boy is shakily easing himself down to his knees because  _holy fucking shit_ ).

When the others finally arrive, it is to find nothing but soot and dust to fight and a passed-out Stiles slumped against Erica’s shoulder with the blonde girl slowly working her tanned, surprisingly gentle fingers through the exhausted teen’s hair.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haleandheart-blog:  
>  _Send me a sentence for my muse’s reaction_  
>  * "Explain yourself."

“They’re stories that have yet to be told, Derek. Soon, though. But not now.”

The teenager sat cross-legged upon his bed, posture lazily comfortable as the golden-eyed boy idly unwound another length of red yarn from its skein. Stiles’ motions were quick and nimble, long fingers working around the rough fabric strand with an almost instinctive sort of gestures that should have come from long practice, from someone much older—with a great deal more experience at weaving and twining and threading the string ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and between his fingers in a horribly complex Cat’s Cradle that made Derek dizzy just looking at it.

“…I still don’t understand, Stiles,” and–once-upon-a-time-ago–that would have stung something (pride, the lack of certainty he had in himself, the irritation that sparked whenever the teenager would glance his way and  _look_  at the ‘wolf with that knowing gleam within his amber gaze) to admit, but that time was long and forgotten and very much past now, and Derek could only bring himself to feel… tired. Exhausted, weary in more than just body and heart-sore, as well, as the teen once more turned that  _glance_ (dark and full of hidden knowledge and Derek felt both vulnerable and naked–stripped bare of secrets and thoughts–for the very first time with Stiles) towards the older man.

Eventually, however, the teen turned away and the ‘wolf felt a trembling sense of  _awareness_  shiver over his skin as power began to ease over the carpet, filling the room with a rumbling sort of tension that should have had Derek’s hackles immediately raising but instead filled him with a desperate sort of yearning  _want_ : willing and wanting to taste the floor of electricity against the flesh of his tongue, to throw himself down-down-down and through the tunnel as the whispers finally broke and offered him their many secrets and Derek would finally know and  _understand_  that look, that glance, that hidden curve of Stiles’ smile that had always remained such an effortlessly layered mystery to him (wanted to unravel each riddle for himself the same way that Stiles allowed the yarn to travel so effortlessly through his graceful pianist fingers).

“Every place, every person, every time has a story, Derek,” Stiles answered readily enough, amusement in his voice even as he connected a bit of thread to another long strand, weaving them together easily. “Every  _thing_  comes paired with a bit of history and, with that history, comes its story. Sometimes, however, that story becomes lost to time. Maybe on accident; maybe on purpose.”

The 'wolf watched as Stiles continued making a circuit of his bedroom, connecting different pieces of the yarn, overlapping other strands, weaving things in and out and–plucking the strings every so often with almost bored, indulgent flicks of his fingertips, and Derek could feel his heart slowly begin to pick up its pace (mouth going dry and eyes widening wider and wider still) as  _whispers_  (hi _sssss_ inggigglingmoaning) flooded the small room each and every time Stiles moved his fingers over a taut strand of yarn.

“But! Stories like being told, you know,” the teen continued, flashing a bright smile over at the pale-eyed 'wolf, the curve of his lips sharp and dangerous and feral. “That’s the whole  _point_  of a story, after all. To be shared with others. And if a story gets buried accidentally-on-purpose… well, everything eventually comes to light in the end, right?”

And Stiles finally came to a stop before him, watching and waiting and expectant, and Derek glanced over to the 'cold cases wall’–what the pack had taken to calling the teen’s particular layout preference–and it took a moment, but… the various strands of yarn, connecting to each other and connecting to each other and connecting to each other and connecting to the scissors that the golden-eyed teen had never bothered to remove from the middle of his bed… arranged as it was, just now… it looked exactly like…

“A spiderweb,” Derek murmured, and  _understood_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> justmccallmeangel:  
>  _I need the K._  
>  *1: Hot, Steamy kiss

Depending on the day, meal, and emergency code level, the mess hall could be either filled to capacity with the base’s workers or almost completely empty, the barest bones of a skeleton crew left behind to keep things functioning and in proper order when—if—the others returned. On the days when the cafeteria was a bustling hubbub of activity, bodies jostling as employees sought a place to sit to eat their meal, dinner was always guaranteed to be the most insane: everyone was hungry after a long day of work, hours put in at whatever station they’d been assigned to—and food was a necessary thing to fill empty, growling bellies.

It was the audience that Stiles wanted, however, because there was no way in hell he intended on this happening in a secret corner this time around, didn’t want this to be another stolen moment. The whiskey-eyed teen was still pissed at the other for that kiss and then actually having the balls to make it into a  _good-bye_  “just in case” and–

Stiles wasn’t someone who functioned like that.

So he’d avoided Scott when the other got back, knew he was giving off the wrong impression–was making his best friend think that this was not only a silent rejection of a hope for  _more_  but also of the friendship that they’d had up until this point–but Stiles was possessive and angry and Scott was all he had since both his mom and dad… and, yeah, maybe it would be better to actually talk about all of this first before doing it, but Stiles had known  _exactly_  what Scott had in mind the moment his hand settled against the lanky teen’s chest and the ‘wolf had pushed the other up and against the wall, mouths brushing softly.

And though Stiles liked words, loved talking–probably too much, actually–sometimes the grand, crazy gestures worked so much better at getting his point across.

Storming into the mess hall with enough of an entrance that people’s attention zeroed in on him, Stiles strode towards the table that was always set aside for the ‘wolves. He knew the moment that Scott realized that he was there: the beta’s nostrils flaring slightly when he caught his best friend’s scent, eyes flaring gold in panic at the public setting where Scott probably believed that Stiles was dead-set on having his confrontation and, perhaps, their falling out. Still, though, the other boy pushed himself out of his chair and stepped away from the table to face the human who was currently making his leisurely way towards him. “…Stiles?”

“You,” Stiles informed his best friend (hopefully soon-to-be-boyfriend) bluntly, all while crowding into Scott’s personal space, “are a fucking  _dumbass_. 'Chalk it up to a sentimental good-bye’? 'Move on’? Not fucking likely, and if you didn’t realize that, you’re– _guh_. Never gonna give you either of those things because I’m never gonna let you go. So… If you  _ever_  pull that stunt on me again, Scott McCall, I will have your  _balls_  on a  _silver platter_.”

Without further ado, Stiles grabbed Scott by the collar of his shirt, hauling the other teen in close so that their bodies could crash together (distant, mostly ignored, he could hear someone yell out a: “Oh, my God!!  _Fi-na-fucking-lly_!!”); the teen had more important matters to attend to, however, like burying his fingers in the soft strands of Scott’s hair–giving a tug to let the other boy know that he wasn’t completely off the hook and wouldn’t be for quite some time–before slotting their mouths together, lips slightly chapped from rough, anxious chewing and damp from nervously wetting them with his tongue before gathering together the sheer  _chutzpah_  needed to “storm the (metaphorical) castle.”

But when Scott shifted and began to press  _back_ , arms coming 'round Stiles’ waist to hold him tight, it felt like finally coming home–and there was nothing and nobody that could stop Stiles from giving a low, greedy sound of pleasure as he coaxed the other’s lips to part just-so: licking into the wet heat of the 'wolf’s mouth with a slow thrust of his clever tongue. He loved how Scott’s hair felt like so much silk between his fingers as he combed through the strands, fingernails scraping idly over the other teenager’s scalp; loved (perhaps even a bit  _too_  much) to learn how he could coax Scott’s canines into lengthening with a teasing pressure from the tip of his tongue against the gum above the 'wolf’s incisor; loved kissing Scott–wet and hot and deep and  _dirty_ –and loved how those delicately pointed teeth felt as they scraped over the sensitive skin of Stiles’ already-bruised lower lip.

Eventually parting, both needing air, Scott dipped his head to press his face against the crook of his best friend’s throat, breathing in the familiar scents that–all together–made of Stiles. Cheek pressing to layer his own scent among the collection, staking his claim much as Stiles had done by doing this in the mess hall, the beta could feel Stiles absently pressing a kiss to an ear that was just the slightly bit pointed, mouth curving into a mischief-laden smile.

“Though, dude, you  _totally_  have some making up to do for earlier–going all 'tragic love story hero,’ kissing me, and then  _running away_ … mission-schmission or not on the line. I fully expect one reality-changing blowjob in apology. Perhaps two.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vvulfric:  
>  _FIRST THREE IN MY INBOX GET KISSES_  
>  *dID SOMEONE SAY KISSES

The musk of wolf was thick in the tattoo parlor, mixing with the underlying and embedded scents of various inks and the endorphin-laced high of adrenaline and pain before brain chemistry and millennia’s worth of survival instincts—encoded in humanity’s very genes nowadays—managed to kick in and dull too-sharp senses. The scents were familiar ones, long ago leeching into the tile and paint and woodwork of the small shop, and the ‘tiger knew that there was nothing that he would ever be able to do that would ever dull the acrid smells, lessen them into something that didn’t immediately sting his nose each and every day when Stiles went to open the store.

Yet:

Pain and pleasure and the eerie smell of mental disconnect were all smells that Stiles had known and had grown intimately familiar with since he had turned eighteen and apprenticed under his first parlor down in Los Angeles; the thick scent of wolf, wild and free and layered under with pine and loam and the promise of springtime rain: still so new and different enough that the weretiger’s attention immediately caught as he slipped through the front door of the small business, head coming up in a quick, jerking motion and nostrils slightly flaring as he drank in a deep breath.

Stiles really should have been annoyed at the unexpected intrusion, but—

Steps cat-quiet as he made his way through the store, the young man tossed his keyring into the small bowl down the hallway set aside for it and his collection of coins and other small knick-knacks that oftentimes ended up in the ‘tigers pockets as the day progressed and the shadows lengthened across the floor. Padding across linoleum, slipping into one of the back rooms that was a bit more private than the others scattered throughout the store, Stiles couldn’t stop himself from a small shake of his head—amused despite it all—when he caught sight of Derek Hale.

“You could have just waited until I opened shop,” the ‘cat scolded with a lifted brow, making his way closer to the older man: movements predatory and stalking—feline and playful for all of it, however—a slow smile tugged Stiles’ Cupid’s bow mouth upwards, even as the tattoo artist worked on cornering the werewolf against the chair where clients reclined while the ‘cat did his work. “An extra couple of minutes wouldn’t have hurt you, Sourwolf. And you could have been eyecandy advertisement as you sat outside the store, too, to boot.”

Derek rolled his hazel eyes at that, ignoring how Stiles continued to corner him further and further backwards until the werewolf’s knees hit the edge of the tattoo chair, and huffed a breath in a gesture that was all (seemingly) barely-there canine tolerance. “I wanted to make sure that I had the chance to book a longer session with you before your schedule filled up. There’s a… more detailed protection work that I’d like you to ink for me.”

Head tilting just-so to the side, the weretiger nudged Derek’s chest—push firm enough to send the ‘wolf tumbling back onto the chair—before shifting forward to straddle over the older man’s hips, knees braced on either side of Derek’s firm thighs. “I suppose I could make some room for you,” the tattoo artist answered readily, purposefully setting his tone musingly thoughtful even as Stiles’ pupils slitted in dark, feline mischief. “Though, knowing you, the work will be mind-numbingly complex, Sourwolf. And that’s gonna cost you~”

Lifting his own eyebrow in reply, the ‘wolf just cupped a hand over the nape of Stiles’ neck, coaxing the younger man’s head down—close, close, closer still, fingers shifting to bury in the short, silky strands of hair at the base of Stiles’ skull—until Derek could fit their mouths together like two puzzle pieces slotting perfectly together and becoming finally, completely  _whole_.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fractumbeta-archive:  
>  _Cook — I’ll write a drabble of our characters cooking together._

Stiles is just finishing up with the brownies’ batter when he hears the now-familiar slide of his bedroom window easing open. It’s something that’s been happening regularly enough that the amber-eyed teen doesn’t bother tensing in concern—but he does spare a moment to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the situation,  _especially_  since he’d told a certain blonde beta several times already to use the front door since Isaac  _knew_  where the house keys were kept. But no; like all ‘wolves nowadays, the other teen seemed to have forgotten that doors were the things that most people used to come and go.

Maybe using a door isn’t ‘mysterious’ enough. Sneaking in through a bedroom window definitely fits better with the leather jacket image—though, granted, Isaac has been less about the leather jacket nowadays and more about the scarves (an entire collection of scarves, actually; Stiles has seen them himself).

Smothering a snicker before it has the chance to escape, Stiles pours the rich, chocolatey batter into the brownie pan he’s already greased in advance; everything pours smoothly, flowing downwards effortlessly until the entirety of the bowl’s contents managed to fill the brownie pan. It took less than a moment to tuck the batter and pan away into the oven—already prepped and ready for baking—before flicking on the sink’s faucet so that the teen could begin to wash dishes in preparation for the chocolate chip cookie dough batter he’d need next.

About to dunk the brownie batter-covered bowl under the hot stream of the water, a hand reaches over Stiles’ shoulder to pluck said bowl from his grasp, taking spoons and beaters, too.

“Hey,” the lanky teen scolds, eyebrow quirking as he glances over a shoulder to catch sight of a werewolf already in the process of licking a spoon clean. “I need those.”

“And I told you that if you didn’t let me have them, I’d kill you,” Isaac responds readily, all but ignoring Stiles in favor of the delicious chocolate batter. He honestly can’t remember—aside from the cake that Stiles made for his birthday—the last time he’d had something like this (maybe before his mom left?), and Isaac intends to savor it for as long as possible. His bright blue gaze is happily shut as his tongue works at leaving various utensils sparkling clean, and…

Well, Stiles decides that it’s not worth fighting the beta for the items back (except for the beaters; he’ll need those back eventually). Leaving the ‘wolf to his own special treat, warmth settling in the base of his belly each time he catches sight of the other teen licking a spoon or the bowl clean, Stiles works at gathering a new set of required cooking utensils—easily done, truthfully, so there’s no point in bitching at the blonde teen.

Or, well, Stiles can’t resist completely bitching at Isaac:

“If you get Salmonella poisoning, I’m totally saying ‘I told you so.’ Just to let you know now,” he forewarns with a small smirk, cracking the eggs that he needs with quick, nimble fingers and placing them into a separate bowl before reaching for the actual first ingredient listed on the recipe the teen’s printed out from the internet.

“Fuck you,” the blonde answers, though Isaac’s voice is more than a bit mellow; it’s a genuine effort now to swallow the smirk, to keep it from broadening because—apparently—the chocolate in the brownie batter was finally getting the other teen’s endorphins to kick in, and Isaac looks thoroughly content. Happy.

(Perhaps it’s the chocolate. Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s being here with Stiles. Perhaps not. —the whiskey-eyed teen’s learned it’s better not to speculate.)

“You should be nicer to me if you want the cookie dough bowl and spoons, too,” Stiles teases the other and, surprisingly, the look that Isaac tosses the teen’s way is more than a bit predatory, beta gold gaze focused completely on the mixing bowl where Stiles has just now tossed in butter and vanilla and various sugars, beating everything until the mixture is thoroughly combined and light and fluffy.

“See? That’s what I thought,” he continues with a smug smirk, mixing flour, salt, chocolate chips, and baking soda together well before pouring in the frothy butter&sugar liquid over everything. The teen’s clever fingers manage to work everything into a gorgeous-looking chocolate chip cookie dough before long, fragrant even to Stiles’ duller senses—and he can only imagine just how twitching Isaac must be to get his hands on this set of cooking supplies, too.

But the ‘wolf will have to wait a bit longer, however, because the brownies have just finished baking and need to cool a bit before the whiskey-eyed boy can continue making the treats that he’d promised Isaac while the blonde got him away from the Nemeton. (Not quite the  _exact_  treats promised, though, once Stiles discovered after a bit of poking and prodding what the beta’s actual favorite baked goods/cookies were.)

The brownies do eventually cool enough for Stiles to begin cutting them in thin slices—thick enough to still taste, to see in the middle of the cookies, but thin enough to make the whole thing manageable because… needless to say, the teen  _might_  have learned all of this from past experience. Cookie dough is scooped over the top and bottom of the brownie slices, carefully pressed down and edges connected before being set down on the cookie sheet placed off to the side and out of the way.

Five cookies.  
Seven cookies.  
Eleven cookies.  
Fourteen cookies.  
Sixteen cookies.  
Nineteen cookies.

They’re huge, monstrous things—in the end, Stiles needed to take out a second sheet for the second half of the batch—but he manages to use up all of the cookie dough and the brownies, which is what he had been aiming for from the very start. Pleased with himself, the teen puts the cookies into the oven to bake (it’ll only take about twenty minutes before everything will be completely done now) and, perhaps to Isaac’s exceptional and eternal glee, finally sets the cookie dough cooking supplies before the beta ‘wolf.

“…it’s all gonna go to your hips,” Stiles promises with a slow curl of a wicked smile, amber eyes sparking with sly amusement as he settles in the chair opposite Isaac. And this? This is  _them_ : the banter, the snark, the teasing and the sarcastic quipping that, maybe, gets too sharp on occasion. Despite all that, however, there is a quiet sense of contentedness that settles over Stiles as he sits down next to Isaac; he’s aware of the beta, of the shift of his body, of his gestures and his attention and the glide of his mood—and it’s the sort of attention that’s generally spread-out at large, comfortably observant but now sharply focused on the blonde teen at his side.

Because Isaac sees just as clearly as Stiles does (and that terrifies the amber-eyed teen sometimes, if he must be honest with himself), has a sense of humor just as edged as his own, a pragmatism that Stiles understands all too well… and it’s that  _shift_ in understanding that leads to a sense of hyperawareness: a friend, packmate, family, perhaps something else—maybe, one day, though Stiles’ thoughts shy away from such pathways because of the danger they pose and the vulnerabilities they reveal—

(And he knows that not everything is well with himself, as well.)

—and the fear that everyone leaves eventually.

Distracting himself from such meanderings, Stiles raises his eyebrows high at the blonde ‘wolf, mischief just brightening his gaze further—knowing the danger he’s putting himself in, but never quite able to resist temptation. “I was totally serious, though, by the way.  _Straight to your hips_. Soon enough, Lassie, you won’t be able to fit through my bedroom window—and then where would you be, huh?”

He totally expects the dough shoved into his face in reply:

And Isaac doesn’t fail to disappoint.

(Doesn’t stop Stiles from laughing his ass off until the timer for the brownie-stuffed-cookies goes off, though.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> badassbetaerica-archive:  
>  _Since memories triggered by scent are the strongest…_  
>  Send my muse a scent and see how they’ll react to it.  
> *Scent Meme: Roses

Stiles didn’t really consider himself someone with a green thumb. But there were things that he knew was expected of him nowadays, especially after spending so many summers away in Ålesund with his Bestefar and Bestemor, learning the craft that he had inherited from his mother—craft that  _she_  should  _also_  have been the one teaching him but couldn’t, locked away as she was in the long-term care ward in Beacon Hills’ hospital.

So: there was little enough that the seventeen year-old boy could grow (beyond a few staple herbs and necessary plants for this and that), but there was a collection of several different climbing roses—tucked away in the corner of the Stilinskis’ backyard—that Stiles took time out of his day to care for, no matter how busy he might otherwise be.

His ‘Rosa Banksiae Lutea’ rose, which he insisted on always calling by such—no matter how often the employees at the nursery he sometimes stopped by at replied with ‘Yellow Lady Banks rose.’ Bestemor always called it Rosa Banksiae Lutea and, as such, it would always stay. There was also his old fashioned red Blaze climbing rose, as well as his Sombreuil Tea Noisette rose and the Pierre De Ronsard rose (another one that the nursery workers muttered about, calling it the ‘Eden rose’ when they thought he couldn’t hear anymore) that had actually been a gift from both Bestefar and Bestemor on his parents’ wedding day.

The Emissary’s favorite, however, happened to be the Joseph’s Coat with its bright orange-red-pink-yellow- _gold_  petals, shades of dawn and sunset and beautifully  _vivid_  against all the greenery; his own bush came from a cutting that he had squirreled away in his luggage the summer after his thirteenth birthday. The original bush was Bestemor’s prized rose bush, the best in her entire garden, and the envy of all the neighbors for miles around. Stiles would spend entire summers curled up under Bestemor’s Joseph’s Coat, reciting runes and herbs and spells after her, his Norwegian as flawless as her own, bringing forth a new bed of moss to sprawl out on every morning as fantastic creatures born from embers danced with joy within his cupped hands.

—and, all the while, Stiles would ignore the fact that his mother was dying several thousand miles away from him (of a disease that his magic could not cure, no matter how many times he tried otherwise) and the worry that would settle within his grandparents’ ancient gazes as they watched their best and brightest grandchild achieve feats that most would consider impossible: doing magic with just the flicker of a thought or the rock-solid foundation of belief to guide him, the soft  _bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt_  of the bees going from bloom to bloom overhead an odd sort of lullaby to accompany Stiles’ various sorts of impossibilities.

But Stiles had always seemed the sort of child more suited for oddities and impossibilities than constraints and restrictions and boundaries, so Bestefar and Bestemor had kept their counsel silent—their equally buzzing minds muted behind closed lips—and taught their would-be son all that they knew through the long days, the trailing weeks, the lazy summers: and the too-brief years that passed them all by.

Claudia died, John Stilinski still sent his son to visit his wife’s parents in Norway for large parts of each summer, and Stiles learned to live with the loss—though it never lessened. Maybe that was why Bestemor never said a word, scolding or otherwise, to Stiles for the theft of the Joseph’s Coat cutting. The teen didn’t know, didn’t ask, but he was grateful for it all the same.

 _Roses_  were this hidden part of his home’s backyard, a tucked away secret that so few were able to actually see: eyes unveiled only with Stiles’ permission and that gift was rarely often given out. His father, Scott, Melissa. That was all—so far, maybe, for the current shift of present events. The (Hidden) Emissary was willing to wait and see just what would happen with the ‘wolves that were returning to Beacon Hills, wanting to keep his own counsel—as his grandparents so often did between themselves—before deciding whether or not he’d tell the truth regarding his  _own_ origins.

Deaton (and so his sister) knew about his powers, the Spark that burned within Stiles’ chest like a wildfire, but not the training that his family had gifted him with—reflected here in this little haven where, even now, Stiles still sometimes curled up over a bed of moss, the heady scent of roses surrounding him like a sensual curtain—cutting him off from the rest of the world, connecting him back to his secondary home in Norway, and watched knights and dragons born from flame fight epic battles over the palms of his hands.

He was never quite sure which side would ever win.

(Was equally unsure which side he  _wanted_  to win.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> abettermccall:  
>  _Send ‘don’t leave’ for my muse’s reaction_

” _Don’t leave._ ”

Stiles bowed his head, whiskey-hued eyes closing tiredly as his fingers flexed tight enough around the lid of his suitcase to make his knuckles bleed bone-white. There was resignation in his stance, in how his head dipped low, agony in his scent: it was the latter, however, that had seeped into each and every surface within his bedroom, soaking in deep until misery and loneliness had become part of this room’s personality, as well:

Had been this way from the moment that Scott had begun pulling away after Allison’s death and once the Nogitsune had finally been exorcised from Stiles permanently. The teen had been left to fend for himself while the rest of the pack followed after the Alpha, and Stiles… Stiles had become an omega, though not by any choice of his own. Losing Scott and his friends within the pack had hit the Spark hard, and the teen had become withdrawn and closed-off afterwards; with nothing else to do, no one to spend his time with Stiles had focused on his studies: and the end result ended with his early acceptance to Yale. An acceptance that Stiles sent back the week before, letting the school know that he’d be arriving in the spring.

Now, though—

Stiles would say that he was surprised, but… he honestly wasn’t. Not really. Somewhere, hidden and deep and  _knowing_  within him, the teen had been expecting this from the moment he caught his dad letting Melissa know that Stiles was leaving for the East Coast in a couple of weeks and probably wouldn’t be back for a while. It was… It was ironic, only  _not_ , and the entire scenario raised a sense of bitterness within the Spark, bile caught in his throat as Stiles suddenly smacked a hand against the top of his luggage.

”Why?  _Why_ , Scott? Why don’t you want me to leave? You’ve—pushed me away. Ignored me since… since the fucking fox. After. After everything that happened, after everything that we all went through, that we all lost—I  _needed_  you afterwards, just like I knew you needed me, and… you pushed me away. Shut me out. Told the others to stay the fuck away from me, too.”

Remembered hurt boiled over within the golden-brown-eyed boy then, the aching knowledge that he was more alone  _now_  than he ever was after his mother’s death—because he had both his dad and Scott afterwards but, now, he only had his father—and the sense of  _loss_  that struck deep at that moment… nothing would ever make him forget that moment. Fury spiking, Stiles grabbed a pillow from the head of his bed and turned in a quick movement to throw the fluffy thing at Scott’s head as hard as he possibly could.

Of course, with an Alpha werewolf’s instincts and reactions, the other teenager easily dodged—though at least Stiles had the satisfaction of watching his one-time best friend’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes go wide in unexpected shock as the ‘wolf finally caught an edge of Stiles’ deep-rooted rage. “ _Tell me, damn you! Tell me why the fuck why I shouldn’t just leave and never look back! Never come the fuck back!_  You—you  _bastard_ , you ignore me for a  _year_  and you tell me to not leave?!  _Fuck you_! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just leave  _now_.”

The last was hissed, angry and sharp, Stiles’ amber eyes vividly bright in his rage and pain and loneliness, and the teen’s normally pale skin was mottled crimson in his temper: honest, true fury had never looked attractive on Stiles—but, then again, the teen had never been a particularly kind person when anger took over, broke rough and violent in a crashing wave, and drowned the normally whiskey-eyed Spark in the dark emotion. Even as Stiles’ cheeks and throat turned red, letting that vicious side run free and open and loose, all of the color bleached from Scott’s tanned skin, horror and hurt readily apparent in his dark brown eyes.

”Stiles—no, I—it wasn’t like that…” Scott began, words halting; he didn’t get very far before the ugly look that the other teen threw his way cut him off. “You… you were always following after me. Always getting wrapped up in everything. Always getting hurt when you got dragged into the middle of things…”

” _It was my decision to make, Scott!_ ” Stiles snapped back, words quick and layered with so many different versions—layers—of anger. Underlying it all, however, was still that open wound (bleeding and sore and tender) that Scott had left that first time that the Alpha had pushed his best friend away; despite that gaping injury, though, Stiles’ chin remained uptilted and challenging, mouth pursed and set even as a muscle ticked regularly in the edge of his jawline. Perhaps it was the fact that Stiles refused to stand down to an Alpha—had never been willing to stand down to an Alpha, even from the very beginning with Peter Hale—or maybe it was the fact that Scott could see that the other teen was already nearly completely packed and that Stiles wasn’t bringing anything that the ‘wolf had ever given to him, but… something within Scott broke just then.

His weight slammed forward into Stiles, both boys tumbling backwards to land awkwardly on the bed, half on and half off of Stiles’ suitcase, and the teenage Alpha had to resist hard against the temptation of clawing the luggage to shreds with his claws. Instead, he pressed his cheek against Stiles’, moving on to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone, the vulnerable indent of bone that was his temple: scentmarking, layering Stiles’ familiar scent with his own, desperate to have his best friend smelling like him again after going so long without it.

”I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Stiles, I’m sorry,” Scott practically babbled, words coming too fast and muffled as he buried his nose against the curve of the other teen’s throat. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry. I was only trying to protect you—I couldn’t let you die, couldn’t go through listening to your heartbeat slow and stop, the way Allison’s did… the same thing, same scenario… I couldn’t lose you, too, so I thought… better to force you not to get involved. Not give you a chance to get in the middle of things. I thought—I thought that it’d be better, safer, that you’d be  _alive_ and it’d be okay, but I’m losing you in a different way because of it and please, please,  _please_  don’t leave, Stiles. Don’t leave.  _Don’t leave me._ ”

He couldn’t bring himself to glance upwards when he felt Stiles shift beneath him, still too frantic with the need to press his skin against the other teen’s, to ensure that Stiles once more carried the Alpha’s scent as easily as his own, but Scott could feel it when Stiles brought a hand up to cover his eyes, the small tremors that began to shiver through the muscles of his torso—the moment when salt and water trickled down his cheeks from beneath Stiles’ tightly-pressed fingers.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myxresponsibility:  
>  _Send a ♚. Your character falls asleep on mine, I’ll reply with what mine does._

Another supernatural threat that had come to Beacon Hills, striking from the shadows for months and hiding from the pack despite their best efforts towards both research and tracking; another hard-pressed battle fought where everyone had been pushed to the very edges of their limits—sometimes more—cornered and desperate and all, at one point or another, certain that they wouldn’t be coming out of this fight alive. They were all exhausted and left with eyes more than slightly haunted and hollow.

Things had been— _bad_  this time. Moreso than usual.

In all honesty, Stiles had expected the Alpha to stay the night with one of the girls or the other ‘wolves; things had been different between him and Scott since the Nogitsune had taken possession of him and, though the teen had figured that that might have been the case—had resigned himself to it from the very start, quietly accepting the fact that things were never going to be the same ever again—it still left Stiles feeling…  _off_. Wrong-footed and on uncertain ground around the Alpha ‘wolf. Just the slightest bit off sync and out-of-step (and miserable, able to at least admit it to himself if no one else).

So when the window to his bedroom slid upwards and Scott eased himself inside the room with a smooth, clambering motion that came from long practice, the teen found himself taken aback. Surprised. Head jerking up from where he’d been watching Criminal Minds on his laptop in an effort to distract himself from the long night ahead, Stiles couldn’t help but stare at Scott for a long moment, just blinking dumbly at the other teen. “…Scott?”

“I can’t sleep.” Statement simple, words clear-cut and direct, Stiles’ best friend climbed up onto the bed to settle next to the lanky teen, settling the weight of his body against the other’s side. Scott was practically a furnace next to Stiles, the ‘wolf’s core temperature higher than the human’s own, but there was something not-familiar but comforting all the same that came from the other’s heat—and the golden-eyed teen soon enough found himself relaxing back against the pillows once more.

Two more episodes into the third season, and the Alpha eventually shifted enough to tuck his face against the vulnerable line of Stiles’ throat: muscles slowly relaxing, one by one, until Scott was limp and relaxed and  _calm_  for the first time in days. He breathed deeply, chest and lungs expanding, and took in the scents of coffee and the bitter undertang of Stiles’ Adderall, the detergent he used for the Stilinski laundry, the mild, faded smells of his shampoo and body wash—and, beneath it all, the familiar scent of  _home_. “…missed you,” Scott murmured as he began to drift off to sleep.

The admittance made the teen go still in shock, eyes wide as he glanced down at the sleeping ‘wolf. Biting roughly at his lower lip to force back tears, Stiles dipped his head to rest against Scott’s temple, eyes closing as strands of his best friend’s hair tickled over his cheeks and nose. “Me, too,” he confessed, voice a low whisper so as not to wake the other boy up.

Reaching out, Stiles carefully closed the top to his laptop before slowly nudging it out of the way towards the foot of the bed with his toes. It took some work, especially with Scott’s weight settled over him, but Stiles managed to snag his comforter to pull over them both—tucking the fabric securely around them, the teen once more pressed his forehead into the silk of Scott’s hair, thumb tracing idle circles over the other teen’s shoulderblade.

“…next time, don’t stay away for so long, Scotty.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _sentence meme: // Send my muse one of the following to see how they react:_  
>  *"I thought you were dead."

Erica couldn’t see the smile that Stiles gave in answer, hidden as he face was from the blonde she-wolf. The teenage boy was curled up beneath a comforter in a corner of the window seat, thick folds of the blanket nearly swallowing his lanky form—burying Stiles beneath layers and layers of downy material that the boy just tucked that much closer around him.

“Who said I wasn’t?” he asked simply enough, long fingers curling around the edge of the comforter to leave behind indents—grasp tight enough that no sneaking, slithering trickle of cool air managed to slip its way into the nest that Stiles had made for himself. 

The teen’s laptop lay open at the far end of the ledge,  _Batman Returns_  running in the background though it was obvious from the boy’s lack of attention that Stiles very likely had been ignoring the movie from the very start. Instead, he pressed his forehead against the cool, sleek foundation of the living room window—staring out into the backyard and the various shades of gray and shadow that the raging storm overhead and the continuous onslaught of rain had painted the normally familiar landscape.

He had become a stranger in a strange land, and Stiles tightened his hold on his mother’s old comforter that much more desperately even though his breathing and heartrate had—somehow—managed to remain somewhat normal. Somehow, somehow, somehow: Stiles had always been too smart for his own good, and learning the necessary tricks to fool a ‘wolf would have (obviously) been one of the first things he’d felt he’d need to look up.

—and yet.

“Didn’t Isaac or Scott tell you? It took them nearly three minutes to get them to get my heart started again.” His breath fogged up the glass, obscuring the outside world temporarily—and… Stiles found that he didn’t quite mind. Not particularly. “At this rate, you, me, and Peter can form Team zombie!Packmates. We’ll get shirts and everything. Maybe even talk Scott and Derek into letting us have a clubhouse, too. It’ll be a  _blast_ , Catwoman.”

Amber eyes closed, wanting—needing—for other senses to sharpen, even if it was just that smallest amount; just that smallest amount was all that was really necessary, at least for now…

And Stiles listened to the steady  _thump-thump-thump_  press against his ears.

_He was still alive._


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> audiensvoces:  
>  _Send me a ♮ for my muse’s reaction to yours coming up from behind and wrapping their arms around mine’s waist._

There was a certain specific sort of frustration that came with being assigned a particular assignment and not knowing just where to actually  _begin_. This wasn’t anything like school, where Stiles could easily look up what he needed on the internet—fudge his way through what he didn’t quite understand, skim through far-too-many resource books that had been uploaded online and shared through p2p software systems and pirating sites.

This…

Was something older, more organic, instinctive but not—there was tradition attached to it, but everything changed on an individual basis, foundations required to be learned and memorized and it was almost completely overwhelming if Stiles took the time to sit and consider the sheer magnitude of what his new mentor was asking of him: the knowledge and the memorization and the learning that was shoved at him, the  _mass_ of it, was terrifying—and this was to be Stiles’ future. Had become his present already, somehow linked to his past (mother, grandparents, family line that stretched back centuries if not millennia already), and… could he do this? Honestly, really and truly?

Staring blankly at the books before him, doubt crippling him, Stiles tried to take a deep breath—couldn’t quite manage it—and covered his face in the hopes that at least blocking out the project that the Trickster had assigned to him would give him a chance to calm and steady himself before he had the chance to tip over the edge. It… it wasn’t _too_  bad. He just… had to somehow come up with a ritual or a trap or  _something_  that would manage to capture or stop or  _something_  the Tulpa and/or the people behind the Thoughtform before it spread any more devastation over Beacon Hills—and before Loki’s next visit. Which could be anytime. Today, even! Maybe even within the next five minutes—

Stiles’ breath hitched again, began to speed up—

The scent of Lydia’s expensive perfume surrounded him first before the pale circle of her arms did. It was an unexpected touch—mostly because Lydia did not touch unless it was deliberate—and Stiles couldn’t stop the small jump of surprise that came in instant reaction, hands falling away, as he stared down at the redhead’s arms like they maybe belonged to another person’s. Perhaps an alien’s. Or a pod person’s.

As if sensing the direction of Stiles’ thoughts, Lydia’s hold tightened just a bit more. “Tell me what’s gotten you so worried that you’re almost on the brink of having a panic attack,” she ordered, tone no-nonsense even as the boy felt her chin come over his shoulder to rest there. “Maybe I can help.”

Perhaps she could, perhaps she couldn’t—but… Stiles felt a bit more grounded, that he might have a chance of actually managing to do this: either way, though, he had to  _try_. There was no point in failing before he had the chance to actually begin.

“So…” Stiles started, reaching down to gently squeeze Lydia’s hand.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> therightfulalpha:  
>  _Send me a ♮ for my muse’s reaction to yours coming up from behind and wrapping their arms around mine’s waist._

When Peter had asked for a favor, Stiles had been suspicious. When the CEO of Neckz ‘n’ Throats magazine had changed that favor to a request for a photoshoot where the photos would remain private—they would remain in his possession—that suspicion skyrocketed into paranoia. Adding in the fact that the closed-doors photoshoot would keep to his original contract stipulations (the most he’d ever strip down to would be underwear)  _and_  that Stiles would get triple his usual commission… the paranoia shifted into overdrive hyperawareness that usually only came about when you were in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, but… Peter was willing to stick to Stiles’ original contract and the student’s tuition for classes was coming up… And thanks to California’s awesome new legislation that got passed, prices for college had gotten even higher.

(The joys of higher education!)

So maybe it was just some weird quirk of the courtship-thing (it felt like a courtship;  _hopefully_  it was a courtship because otherwise it was  _definitely_  a predator-stalking-prey thing) that the Alpha was trying to coax him into…? Like: Here, I somehow find your skinny, lily-white ass attractive; here is a lot of money so you can pay for school and so I can prove that I can provide for you like a good Alpha—that sort of thing? And the whole closed photoshoot was to prove that Stiles was safe alone with Peter.

…Stiles was deeply,  _deeply_  resentful that he had to leave his bear pepperspray at home.

The beginning of the photoshoot wasn’t too bad. Pretty standard for what Stiles already did for the magazine, which was—surprising. And continued to level out his suspicion as to why Peter wanted it in the first place, why he was paying so much, and why he was the one behind the camera when it was usually Derek who was booked for the student’s main shoots. Stiles was neither stupid nor blind, and there had been—small details—that he had managed to catch, from time to time in the months that he had been working for Neckz ‘n’ Throats. Maybe other people turned a blind eye or maybe they honestly didn’t notice; it helped that Stiles’ dad was Sheriff and that Stiles’ major was Psychology, so… but. Whatever. It wasn’t any of his business.

Until Peter had Stiles upright on his knees, facing the camera, and it was too late to turn around when the teen felt the makeshift bed dip just behind him ( _so_  a predator-stalking-prey thing). The amber-eyed boy was starting to tense, body tightening in anticipation of fleeing the scene, when a familiar pair of arms slipped around his waist and the scent of Derek’s cologne settled over them both. “…Derek?” Stiles whispered, voice dropping low as the beta ‘wolf’s cheek and the tip of his nose brushed over Stiles’ throat and collarbone and—oooooh, my God, Derek was scent marking him.

Yup, that was some very blatant, very thorough, very possessive ‘Mine. Mine. Mine.’ scent marking going on, and Stiles could feel himself blushing brightly as Derek’s hand cupped over the winged arch of his hipbone before tucking just the barest tip of his thumb into the elastic band of the pair of boxer briefs, and Stiles sorta really wished for more layers because he was feeling very, very naked and very, very vulnerable and very, very much under intense scrutiny and, of course, Peter was watching this all with heavy-lidded Alpha eyes.

“My nephew and I have grown rather fond of you while you’ve worked here in the company, Stiles. Derek thinks that you might be the missing puzzle piece needed for  _us_ , and I see nothing that would make me disagree with him,” Peter began, even as Derek’s arms tightened their hold around the teen—and even with being cornered in this situation by Peter freaking Hale, Stiles knew that Derek wouldn’t ever hurt him. Had known that from the moment he had run into a photoshoot, fifteen minutes late and panting—full day of classes behind him and not yet stopped for breakfast or lunch or dinner—and all Derek had done was stare at him for a moment and paused the photoshoot for an additional fifteen minutes while he sent an aide down to the cafeteria to get Stiles something to eat.

Still… The teen squinted at Peter, mistrust obvious in his gaze, and began rather dubiously, “Are you… are you  _propositioning_ me?”

Derek huffed a laugh against the pale line of Stiles’ skin before giving in to instinct and temptation both, teeth latching down at the curve of the boy’s neck to leave behind a physical mark instead of just his scent as a claim to the teen in his arms. And Stiles’ reaction was everything that the beta could have wanted in turn: baring his throat for Derek, arching up into the heat of the older man’s mouth with his fingernails digging in roughly into the meat of Derek’s arm, unable to give voice to anything but a strangled, “— _oh_.”

The click of the camera was enough to cut through some of the fog of ‘yes, yes, that feels very nice’ so that Stiles was able to tilt his head just enough in Peter’s direction: eyes opening, he tossed a  _Look_  the Alpha’s way. And received just another click of the camera’s shutter going off for his own trouble.

“Not  _propositioning_  you, but  _courting_  you, Stiles,” Peter eventually corrected and, yeah, that was amusement in his voice (the bastard), but Stiles decided to be magnanimous enough to let things go—this time—since Derek still had his teeth latched over his skin (good thing that Derek was tomorrow’s photographer and that he was talented at Photoshop) and was lightly trailing his fingers through the faint line of hair just beneath Stiles’ navel. Once more, the mattress dipped with added weight and the teen was able to bring himself to open one eye to see… not so surprisingly Peter, slowly stalking his way towards Stiles and his nephew, eyes glowing crimson with intent.

"Curious to see what it’s like being Little Red being courted by the Big Bad Wolves?” he asked, amused with the trope, and grinning wide enough to show the delicate points of canines. If anything, however, Peter’s comment brought a hidden sort of glee to Stiles in turn—because the older man obviously had no clue what type of Red Riding Hood had become rather popular in the video game industry as of late (mass murdering, psychotic, usually with the Big Bad Wolf on a leash).

Grinning in turn, the teen grabbed the CEO by his tie and reeled in him closer until Peter was slotted in against Stiles’ front, arms wrapping snugly around the boy’s waist with his hands probably tucked into the back pockets of Derek’s jeans. “I want a raise.” Because being courted or not, he still had to pay for school—and Stiles thought himself pragmatic in the best sense of the word.

Snorting in amusement, Peter murmured a quiet, “Deal.” before tilting the teen’s head upwards just enough to seal his mouth over Stiles’, deepening the kiss immediately even as Derek bit down just a little harder over the juncture of throat and shoulder, hand sliding down lower to cup over the front of Stiles’ boxer briefs.

—and the camera’s shutter clicked, obviously set to an automatic timer.

Sneaky, sneaky werewolves.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hxleonfire:  
>  _Send me ‘♋’ for my character’s reaction to yours pinning them and grinding against them._

There had been sidelong glances, certain comments that could be taken different ways if one wanted to be purposefully obtuse about things, the comforting brush of fingers through his hair–there and gone again–on long nights at the loft when Stiles had stayed up late with research, searching for some sort of solution that the pack could turn to before finally passing out from exhaustion.

The teen had watched and waited, willing to see what Cora would do: Derek was overprotective of his little sister, sure–he had thought that she had died and then, suddenly, had been given the chance to have her in his life again after so many years with her gone. But the Alpha wasn’t nearly as ‘stare you down while absently filing his claws’ as everyone seemed to think, so… Stiles waited.

When Cora actually finally did make her move, though, the boy certainly didn’t expect it to be her shoving Stiles against the loft’s wall the moment Derek left for a grocery run. He might have squawked a bit in surprise (seriously, was it a Hale genetic disposition that had them shoving him into things as a sign of their undying affection?!), but the sound was soon enough swallowed when the she-wolf pressed her mouth over Stiles’ and–ohmyGod–he was pretty sure that that was Cora’s thigh that was tucked between his own, arching and rocking and  _grinding_  and making these little growly sounds that shouldn’t sound as hot as they did and hopefully someone had been kind enough to inform her that Stiles had  _no_  experience with any of this, zip! zero! zilch! none!–

Stiles recognized that familiar sense of looming.

Gently, the teen cupped Cora’s face between his hands and shifted them both enough to break the kiss; blinking, desperate for blood to rush North instead of South, Stiles glanced over the youngest Hale’s shoulder to meet Derek’s crossed, bulging arms, unimpressed expression, and flat stare.

“…hi, Derek! So, um. Cora and I were–discussing the option of maybe going out for a movie. Tonight. Which will be rated G. Fun for all audiences! I heard that the latest Veggie Tales movie got  _rave_  reviews on Rotten Tomato! And we will sit. To watch the movie…? With three rows separating us!”

–nope. Still glaring. Still looming.

 _Fuck_.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _Send me ‘♋’ for my character’s reaction to yours pinning them and grinding against them._

There were certain days that everyone had to make excuses to others for–friends, family, it didn’t matter. Those days were days that they were required to show up, dressed appropriately and ready to get dirty, get bruised, and mend broken bones–if you were unlucky enough (Stiles, however, was a delicate porcelain doll and had been actively scanning for any and all traps during training days that might end up with him and broken bones and a trip to the emergency room because he and shots? totally not bros).

The pack was scattered somewhere in the forest up ahead, each tracking the other and that was fine with Stiles–it wasn’t the task that he’d been assigned with this particular session. Instead, his mission was something of a mix from Deaton and Chris Argent both and interesting and fun enough that the boy was practically vibrating with excitement and anticipation. Crouched down by a fallen low, comfortable in the new pair of cargo pants that he and Scott had gone out to buy the weekend before (definitely easier to move in than the jeans he had before), Stiles tilted his head to the side and cast out with–something, a sense that he couldn’t quite define,  _reaching_  to pinpoint where each of the pack members were.

He had just managed to track down nearly all of the packmates except for–when a solid weight landed in the middle of Stiles’ back, sending the boy tumbling forward, end over end, and pinning him facedown onto the moss-covered ground. Groaning, Stiles flailed a bit and cursed a bit and definitely yelled more than a bit. “Dammit, Erica! We’re supposed to be training! You’re supposed to be with the others!”

“I  _was_  with the others,” the blonde she-wolf corrected and shifted just enough to flip the boy over onto his back before straddling over his hips once more. “And now I’m bored. So entertain me~” The grin that she tossed down at Stiles was white and sharp, all predatory intent even as her hips idly rolled over his, motion smooth and constant and that should be  _outlawed_ , Stiles swore to God. He let out a shaky breath, soft sound of pleasure letting loose despite his best efforts, and Erica gave a pleased hum in return as she dipped her head to nip at the arched, bared line of the teenager’s pale throat.

A twig snapped beneath a weight, and Stiles opened his eyes to see several pairs of booted feet. He followed the legs up and up and up, only to meet the less-than-impressed faces of Derek, Scott, Deaton, and Christ Argent. All whom were currently staring down at him with identical expressions of, ‘Really, Stiles?  _Really_? We certainly expected better behavior. If not of Erica, then definitely of you.’

Groaning–this time definitely  _not_  in pleasure–Stiles clapped a hand over his eyes, hoping that maybe the next time he opened them, everyone would be gone. Totally time to default to the time-honored tradition of ignoring something until it went away problem-solving solution.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> familianegotium:  
>  _Send me ‘♋’ for my character’s reaction to yours pinning them and grinding against them._

Stiles wasn’t quite sure what it had been that finally made Dean move in from the side-stepping territory that the Winchester brother had remained so firmly engaged in from the moment he had driven in to Beacon Hills. Maybe it had been Lydia’s recipe for self-igniting Molotov cocktails—those typically left  _quite_  the impression on other people.

Or maybe it had been when Dean had gotten distracted with another potential threat and had put his back to an omega werewolf that had somehow gone—literally—rabid. The Hunter had gone down with a grunt as the ‘wolf’s heavy weight collided with him, bodies rolling across the floor as the human had tried to gain some type of leverage, and Dean’s gun had slid across the floor to come to a stop at Stiles’ feet. So the teen had picked it up, checked the bullets and the chamber, braced himself for recoil, aimed and shot the rampaging werewolf with effortless precision in the head when it was next atop Dean. To the look that the Hunter tossed his way, Stiles heaved a long-suffering sigh because— _seriously_ , everyone seemed to forget. “Dad’s the Sheriff. Obviously, he taught me how to use and shoot a gun, if only for my own safety, dumbass.”

Or maybe—there were loads of other things it might have been or, maybe, it could have been none of them at all. Or maybe it could have just been all of them, combined, something building up that needed to happen over time and required Stiles’ patience and Dean’s own reluctance to meet in the middle in some kind of mutual, silent agreement where a glance was all that was needed to be understood. But it all came crashing to a head as Stiles walked past the Hunter, stripping out of his shirt and making his way towards Dean’s suitcase to borrow one of his own; the stash that the teen typically kept in the Jeep finally ran out and there was no way he was showing up at home with a slashed and bloodied shirt, his dad in the know or not.

Fingers about to close over one of Dean’s more well-worn shirts, the teen felt the first brush of the older man’s thumb over one of Stiles’ many moles—touch tentative at first before turning slightly exploratory as Dean brushed his fingertips over the next. Turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, Stiles quirked an eyebrow in inquiry at the Winchester brother: challenge and question both—‘Are we gonna do this, finally?’ As if to answer him, Dean suddenly surged forward, heavier weight shoving and pinning Stiles against the wall of the motel room he and Sam were currently staying in, body crowding in close to press in tight, hips and thighs tangling with Stiles’ thoroughly even as Dean slotted in against the boy to rock, demanding and hungry and aggressive and, yeah, there was the teen’s answer: ‘We’re gonna do this.’

Grinning brightly up at Dean, the teen hooked his heel behind the other man’s calf, shifting them both to send the Hunter tumbling backwards with Stiles following after. “You take fucking  _forever_  to decide what you want to have—when it’s not a stupid cheeseburger,” he complained even as the amber-eyed boy buried his long fingers in Dean’s hair, tugging hard enough to force the older man to tilt his head back and—Stiles totally deserved a reward for not going insane weeks ago and beating Dean senseless with his computer. So he latched his teeth in Dean’s Adam’s apple as he’d been itching to do since pretty much from the beginning and proceeded to show the Hunter why he really, really,  _really_  hated waiting.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> therightfulalpha:  
>  _Send “Don’t push me away, you need me.” for my character’s response._

There was something so utterly desperate that layered Derek’s voice as he said that to Stiles, a  _need_  of his own to be absolutely certain that those he considered his pack were safe and healthy—were somewhere defensible. Were in a place that Derek could protect, even if he wasn’t quite up to that protecting.

It had been a trial to work the poison out of the Alpha ‘wolf without Derek realizing just what Stiles was actually doing, doubly so since the teen had to also untangle the threads of spellwork that the Darach had attached to the poison before ever giving it to the man: it was taxing and left him nearly as exhausted as the ‘wolf himself, curling in close to Derek and slowly combing his fingers through the dark, sweaty strands as Stiles rested and patterned through different plans.

He knew, though, that they didn’t have very many choices. The Darach had somehow managed to slip Derek the poison and had proven to have the ability to get close enough to them all to strike at the pack’s  _Alpha_. To hurt  _Derek_. That, in and of itself, was an insult that could not be tolerated—would normally be handled by the second beta or lefthand, but the pack order was in such disorder that… well, who really cared.

There was a time and place that Stiles had finally wanted to reveal his training, his history, to Derek—to the others, later on—and this  _definitely_  hadn’t been the boy’s first choice, and yet. Yet. No one else was there and the Alpha was down for the count. It was that thought that had Stiles curling in closer, continuing with the grooming that brought comfort and reassurance to most ‘wolves. —with Derek out of commission, the poisoning was intentional and that meant that the Darach wanted the man to come crawling to him/her for help. Bartered for a cure, probably needed Derek’s help for some reason or another. Well—fuck that shit. Stiles was  _done_.

But—those words. Exhausted, poisoned, after nearly dying, and he still thought that it was  _Stiles_  that needed help. Snorting a bit at the entire ridiculousness of the situation, the teenager brushed Derek’s bangs away from his face, using the pad of his thumb to soothe away the slight furrow between the Alpha’s brows. “I’m not pushing you away, you idiot—or at least not on purpose. And I do need you just as much as you need me, but it’s my turn to take care of you this time around. So… just stay here and rest, all right? Heal for a bit. I’m gonna go and slay myself a witch.”

* * *

“…Stiles,” Jennifer greeted the teenager cautiously as she stepped into the clearing of the meeting place coordinates that she had sent to Derek just a few days before. There was tension in the line of her body, fingers twitching slightly even as her gaze shifted from side to side—scanning the clearing’s edges, perhaps hoping to catch sight of a sick and dying Derek and his pack supporting him the rest of the way to her.

Instead, Stiles just smiled brightly at his English teacher, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Heeey, Miss Blake! Sorry about the change of plans. You know how they go—a little surprise poisoning throws  _everything_ , right, and months of work just goes straight to hell.” The woman’s face hardened as Stiles spoke, but it was nothing compared to the flat rage that deepened the amber of his gaze before power, magic, his Spark burned irises to metallic copper. “You and the Alpha pack? You all should’ve just stayed the fuck outta Beacon Hills. This place? Mine. The people? Mine. The forest? Mine. And the ‘wolves?  _All. Mine._ ”

The Darach screamed in rage and lashed forward to attack, debris swirling everywhere in the space between them both, and then suddenly lightning flashed hotly through the air to leave behind nothing but the scent of ozone.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyxbrother:  
>  _Send “Don’t push me away, you need me.” for my character’s response._

And that was the kicker. Stiles  _did_.

He needed Scott, needed him so much: Scott was family, was pack, was his best friend and brother. Scott had been the one, at the age of four, to punch the daycare bully who had taken the sandwich that Stiles’ mom had made him for lunch. It had resulted in all three of them getting time-out, but there had been a vicious sort of satisfied glee in sharing his coveted sandwich with the boy who had defended it so thoroughly and watching the bully who had tried to take it by force burst into frustrated, jealous tears.

The start of their friendship, one that had stood the test of years and the hardships and experiences that a person always had to learn how to suffer through. It had been Scott who had stood next to Stiles at his mom’s funeral, letting the amber-eyed boy hold his hand so tightly, holding back in a promise not to ever let go—it wasn’t until the next day when Scott showed up at his house with a hand that was black and blue that Stiles realized that he had actually managed to bruise  _bone_ , and that Scott had never once said a word or asked him to let go.

Had been there, in turn, for Scott while they both watched Kyle walk out of the McCalls’ front door for the very last time, had held the silently crying boy against his chest later on that night as his hands soothed over his best friend’s back in the way Stiles could remember his mom doing for him. Back and forth, give and take: their lives so entangled with one another’s that, at times, Stiles wasn’t quite sure where one began and the other ended.

(Too often reached for a shirt or a text or a pen or even a small knick-knack that had appeared on his desk one day, only to realize that it wasn’t his—ownership of the item in question actually had the dubious honor of belonging to Scott and, seriously, how the hell had it ended up over here?)

So tangled up in one another—love and affection, dedication and loyalty, guilt and shame—and Stiles knew that, should push come to shove (and it would because it _always_  came to it, in the end, and he was just jumping ahead to Plan B before things got to that point—), there would be a special sort of devastation that would wait for him if he hurt Melissa or his dad, but with Scott: he’d already done that. Knew what the weight of the katana’s hilt felt like against the curve of his hand as the Nogitsune turned it around, over and over and over again, shoved it deeper in Scott’s gut—couldn’t have that happen once more—couldn’t chance the fox somehow managing to heal before it  _died_  completely because Stiles knew exactly who it’d target first as it broke its bonds and roared up from the Void, filling his mind with darkness and shadow yet again.

Every time Stiles glanced at Scott now, the Nogitsune’s whisper brushed against the shell of his ear, midnight dark and as a sweetly crooned promise as a knife in the back:

_The maker makes it but doesn’t use it…_  
_The buyer buys it but doesn’t need it…  
_ _The one who needs it never knows it…_

He stared at Scott,  _knowing_  the answer even as he imagined Scott, cold and pale and dead, lying still in his best suit in a coffin that was lined with white satin. A coffin.

_Imagine how much we shall make him suffer, for being something bright and beautiful—for being kind in a world that has become only cruel—imagine how much we shall make him suffer because of how very much he means to you, Stiles. Friend, family, brother, pack, Alpha. You wish to one day be his Emissary, but he is the one who anchors your own humanity—_

Stiles’ fingers curled tightly in the bus ticket he had booked to New Orleans, glancing down and away so that he no longer had to meet Scott’s gaze. He knew that he was running, having only a distant hope that  _someone_  in New Orleans—voodoo priest or priestess or anyone—would be able to help him get the fox out, would know more about this particular type of possession than Deaton, but… more than that, he was running to keep his family safe. To keep Scott safe. To let the thing inside of him finally  _die_ , please.

“…you need to stay, Scotty. Beacon Hills needs you.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyxbrother:  
>  _Send me “black bird” for a darker memory of my muse’s past_

It’s been three weeks past the funeral.

Stiles still spends most nights staring aimlessly up at his bedroom ceiling, eyes gritty and dry and feeling like they’re filled with sand and wishing that he can somehow still find enough water within himself to conjure tears. It feels like a betrayal to his mom’s memory, the fact that he can no longer cry: it almost feels as if it’s some sort of symbol, some proof to the outside world, a God that he doesn’t believe in that he never really loved her, anyway. After all, it hasn’t been a month yet and he can’t even be goddamn bothered to  _cry_  anymore.

The glow from the little plastic stars that he and Scott stuck up on the ceiling and walls in first grade (Stiles remembers spending an entire afternoon bouncing all over his bed with Scott and leaving behind muddy shoe prints for his mom to find, clambering all over various pieces of furniture—all while each boy tried to outdo the other in getting their own stars as high up as possible and thus ‘winning’ the game) are the only things that manage to light Stiles’ room this late at night, and he knows that it’s sometime past midnight, probably closer to two or three, but… doesn’t know for certain and can’t quite find the energy to care. Time will be easier to guess when light eventually softens the horizon and paints the sky with gentle pastels—promises that ‘tomorrow’ is finally ‘today’—but until that actually happens…

It doesn’t matter.

 _It doesn’t matter_.

He’s drowning in a sea of shadows, no air to breathe and no land in sight, and his eyes are bone-dry—as if he hasn’t cried in years, in ever, not since the day of his birth—and the ticking of time and the weight of darkness presses in against his ribs despite the dim starlight shining above—and he can’t  _breathe_ —

There is a loud clatter down below, and the unexpectedness of the sound surprises Stiles into taking a breath. He trembles beneath his sheets, panting almost silently as his hands clutch at the fabric of his bedcovers with a white-knuckled grip and the boy  _strains_  to hear just what might be happening downstairs. There is silence for several long moments, just enough time for Stiles to begin to relax, and then comes the sharp, distinctive crash of glass breaking.

His inhales quickly in a gasp, amber eyes wide as they stare at the bedroom door: but, again, there is nothing but peace and quiet after too many quick beats of his heart. No other sound comes, and yet… there was still the two from before. Stiles slips carefully from bed, stuffing his feet into his sneakers; he knows it would be better to do up the laces, but it will cost time and—there was still that crashing sound. Creeping cat-like, the boy takes the golf club he ‘borrows’ from his dad’s set on the nights when the Sherriff has overnight duty and begins to make his way down the stairs.

It’s easy enough to avoid the third-to-the-last step, always eases over it when sneaking downstairs for a middle of the night snack run. Stiles is scared (terrified), but he can pretend that that’s all this is until—he can’t pretend anymore. And then he’ll figure out what else to do.

He slips from corner to corner, knowing exactly where to go to keep hidden and out of sight from so many games of Hide and Seek with Scott through the years (and perhaps he has a tendency to cheat a bit, but he’ll never actually  _tell_  his best friend that), and it doesn’t take long before Stiles has a perfect view of the dining room and manages to remain perfectly hidden from anyone who might actually be there.

There wasn’t any point in being so stealthy.

Slowly uncurling from his crouch and setting aside the golfing iron, Stiles steps into the room—easily making his way around the low coffee table and the various knick-knacks that his mom decorated the room with that neither he nor his dad are yet able to put away or change. It’s— It’s his dad, slumped over against the couch with a halfway full bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in one hand. There are glass shards and whiskey scattered across the floor further into the hallway, and Stiles figures that his dad probably had a second bottle, too, this one most likely actually full.

The Sheriff is asleep now, or what passes for it nowadays, tear tracks still wet upon his face and—Stiles’ chest  _hurts_. It’s like his heart is breaking all over again, like he’s standing right in front of the coffin—at the funeral—and everything is on repeat, and he can’t goddamn cry, and… so the amber-eyed boy does the only thing he  _can_  do right now, with his eyes desert-parched and his heart shriveling in his chest.

It takes more tries than Stiles will admit to, but he manages to get his dad up and onto the couch and covered with a blanket. The bottle of JD is emptied down the sink, but Stiles knows that it won’t matter for right now when it seems like his dad needs it to dull the pain; maybe later, when things go a bit more numb, maybe in the long run—but not right now. The broom and small dustpan are taken out of the pantry, and the boy carefully begins to sweep up the pieces of glass. The larger ones don’t take any time at all, but the smaller ones do, are hidden away and take forever to track down. But both Stiles and his dad walk around barefoot and… it needs to be done.

Paper towels take care of the initial mop-up of the alcohol, but Stiles scrubs down the entire area with hardwood floor cleaner before the whiskey has a chance to set in. By the time the boy is finished with everything—the clean-up taking longer than expected or perhaps his father’s breakdown happening later than Stiles had originally thought—Stiles has to rush to get to school. He doesn’t have enough time to shower, but the smell of whiskey is faint enough that someone would have to be pressed up close against him to actually  _smell_  it, and… there’s only one person who would maybe know, then, but Stiles knows that Scott would never, ever tell.

There are still several minutes until the bell rings when he chains up his bike with all the others, and it takes but just a moment to catch sight of his best friend. That same broken, shriveled feeling from before slowly starts to come back, but—

Stiles reaches out and grabs hold of Scott’s arm, clutching desperately tight in a way that will tell the other boy that he’s not all right—not at all. He leans in close and tucks his face against the crook of Scott’s neck, closing his eyes and holding on and holding on and holding on and listening to the slightly unsteady rhythm of Scott’s asthmatic breathing (there’s air,  _here_ )—

And the world’s become a storm, raging and howling around him.  
And Stiles a boat cast adrift through the turbulent waves.

But here: Here is his home port, the anchor that keeps him grounded.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notjustanothermutt-deactivated2:  
>  _Send me “black bird” for a darker memory of my muse’s past_

“A memory, huh?” the boy asks, grin too wide and eyes too sharp as he glances over his shoulder to meet the she-wolf’s gaze. There is a darker edge within his own amber eyes, something that is mean or bitter or full of regret. Or perhaps all of these things (and perhaps none of them at all).

He holds Jess’ gaze for a moment longer, all wolfish behavior despite the fact that he is still very much apparently human: dominant and aggressive enough to stand toe-to-toe with Alphas, baring teeth at them and betas and omegas alike. Foolhardy or brave, it doesn’t really matter. Stiles refuses to back down from a fight nowadays, stands his ground with chin high and challenge in his gaze—and no one can quite understand  _why_  or  _how_  or even  _when_.

Turning forward to once more face the river whose bank they’re sitting at, the teenage boy picks up a decent-sized pebble from next to his hip and inspects it for just a moment before his arm moves back and the rock gets launched into the air. It spins ‘round several times, over and over again, eventually landing in the middle of the stream with a loud, satisfying ‘plop!’

“So there’s this guy. Pretty much his entire family dies all in one go and, at the time, all he thinks that’s left of it is a basically braindead uncle, himself, and an older sister. A couple years pass, a crapton of shit ends up happening, supernatural things start coming back out of the woodwork in Beacon Hills—and the sister comes back. She gets killed in a set-up ambush, the brother doesn’t hear from her in a couple of days, he comes back to see what happened to her. Enter two really,  _really_  dumb teenagers who hear about a dead body on a police scanner one of them shouldn’t have had in the first place and—being the really, really dumb teenagers that they are, they go looking for it.”

Stiles pauses in the story at that, chewing absently at his thumb as he thinks. The silence doesn’t last long because the teen does know where the story needs to lead towards, but—this is something that he’s never actually said aloud and, yeah, he can only imagine just how strong the scent of shame must be for the she-wolf.

“One of the dumb teenagers gets bit, turns into a werewolf, more shitty things happen—there’s a ton of screaming and terror and fire and blood and flailing and Jeeps getting damaged by a certain feral ex-Alpha dickhead and more screaming and… you pretty much get the picture. Lots of stuff ends up happening, most of it not good, huge chunk of it a weird mix of a Scooby Doo episode where the monsters are real and Murder She Wrote. With more blood. And screaming. I mentioned the screaming, right? But—the part that pretty much everything else was supposed to lead into was layered in under everything else. Because some of the crapton of events that happened, the two really dumb teenagers actually managed to set the brother up as a murder suspect. …a couple of times, actually, but let’s not sweat the details. What’s important was…”

He can feel his heart race, the way that its beating came too quick, too fast—a hummingbird’s wings pounding against the cage that his ribs had become, demanding to get out and have its own sort of freedom; the tension-sweat that gathers at his temples and slowly trickles over his cheeks to drip off of the edge of Stiles’ jaw feels clammy, sickly and wrong and the teen brushes it away with the sleeve of his tee.

“The family that died? They died on this land. Generations of that family lived and died on this land. It’s their land, owned and claimed by them—theirs, no matter what any sort of government might say otherwise. Blood and bone and ash and fang and claw, it’s theirs. The woods are theirs. The sister came back home when she didn’t have to, not necessarily. She died trying to find out what was going on here and to prepare to defend Beacon Hills against it. She sacrificed her life, no matter that she was ambushed in an unfair fight, because she came here to defend and to protect. As her family always did. And the brother? Might not have originally come back to fight and defend, but that’s what he ended up doing. More than that, though—he buried his sister in his family’s land, gave her the honors that he could remember, protected her spirit against all who would try to disturb her… and the two really, really dumb teenagers not only stumbled upon her grave but were cruel enough in the way that all kids usually are—because all they really care about is me, me, me, right?—to family, sister, and brother to desecrate the grave by digging her up. The kicker, though…? The teenagers set the brother up as a murder suspect for the sister’s death, yeah. But.”

Stiles shakes his head then, slouching forward to rest his chin atop his knees while hugging his legs closer still to the lanky form of his body.

“But never once did they apologize for the desecration to the sister’s grave. Still haven’t, not even to this day. I mean, sure, the stupid teenagers could say that there are lots of reasons for it—too much time’s passed by now, they better understand the pain the brother must have felt during the time, blah blah blah. But those would just be bullshit excuses. Because how do you apologize for something that’s inexcusable?”

He falls silent after that, eyes going heavy-lidded as he stares out over the water. The amber-eyed teen’s expression is pensive and obviously lost in memory, no matter the fact that he’s not spoken a single word after that last bit. Eventually, however, Stiles begins to stir as he hides away the darker thoughts and the quieter, more serious expressions: when he moves, it comes in a sudden burst of movement as he abruptly jumps up to his feet, clapping his hands gaily.

“All right, Jess! Storytime’s over. Time to head back into town; c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, let’s get a move on it~”

And it’s as if the energetic, high-spirited, chatterbox, and pushy Stiles never left at all.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> therightfulalpha:  
>  _Send me a color and my character will give three things of importance in their life involving it._

♘ | Blue is safety, is the sense of home wherever he may be. Blue is the heavy weight of a hand at the nape of his neck, the glint of gold upon a breast and the word ‘SHERIFF’ so proudly and honorably displayed for all to see. Blue is the passing of years and the grief of loss etched into the corners of eyes as crows feet, lines showing the price that life has asked him to pay. Blue is the knowledge that he’s never alone, that there is someone here who will always–literally–fight through Hell to get him back. Blue is tight, back-breaking hugs, ones that sometimes leaves his shirt collar a little damp (something he never mentions aloud, but always makes his throat fill up with too many words that go unspoken). Blue is honest sincerity in a voice and the statement: “You’re a hero.” Blue is the faint scent of whiskey layered over by gunpowder and Stetson (“C'mon, Dad, who’re you trying to impress here?!”) and the black sludge that BHPD tries to pass off as coffee. Blue is horribly cooked meals and unhealthy snack foods and long-suffering sighs as he stares too long at the Nutritional Facts on the back of food packaging. Blue is the chapped press of lips against his forehead when his dad thinks that he’s asleep at night and a huskily whispered, “I’m so proud of you, son.”

✌ | Once is an incident; twice is a coincidence; three times is a pattern: Perhaps you might consider Stiles a magpie, but it’s never anything particularly shiny that he goes after. There’s a drawer–bottom left, more out of the way than anything else, and he’s picked this one deliberately–that’s filled to the brim with blue shirts. None of them are his. None of them are  _supposed_  to be his. He’s collected them, one by one and bit by bit, over the course of months: always going slowly and being careful of scents so that none of the ‘wolves pick up on things so quickly. He’s taken one of Scott’s regular sleep shirts, well-worn with age and so soft that the fabric almost feels like silk against his fingertips. It used to be bright, royal blue, but time has faded it to an overcast color and the graphic that it came with has long since washed away. There’s a powder blue tank top from Erica in the drawer, scoop-necked and not worn after Derek gave her the Bite; Stiles remembers how bright it made her hair look and it was that reason he was able to sneak into her house to take it away after they found out that she had died. He’s stolen one of Boyd’s plain navy shirts, Fruit of the Loom tag frayed at the edges but the actual shirt well cared for and  _huge_  when Stiles held it up to himself (hanging well-past his hips and causing him to shake his head in disbelief at Boyd’s sheer bulk). One of Derek’s Henleys have been claimed for himself: gray-blue and soft and, to Stiles’ eternal amusement, having  _thumb-holes_ at the end of the sleeves. He thinks that Derek may be suspicious, or something like it: brows furrowed thoughtfully as he glanced between his closet and Stiles and back again the day after Stiles had made off with his goods. Isaac doesn’t have very much to his name, though Melissa and Scott are working on changing that, so Stiles is careful about what he takes from the blonde beta. It ends up being an older midnight-blue undershirt–something that needs to be retired, anyway, with stitching coming out a bit at the seams and the fabric at the edges and hems slowly being eaten away at with each and every wash. The blouse he takes from Lydia he claims at her next party; it’s simple and understated, elegant with the softer lines and curves that she’s starting to favor lately. Even the blue is a bit more muted and not as stark or striking as before. The theft of Allison’s shirt is terrifying, if only because Chris Argent nearly catches him. Just barely managing to dive out of sight as he steps into his daughter’s bedroom–Stiles with neon blue crop top in hand–the teenage boy couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same terror that Scott and Isaac both lived through while attempting to do anything PG-13+ with Allison. Not even Peter manages to escape Stiles’ kleptomaniac tendencies: that had been a mission and a half, but the teen made off with one of the older man’s ridiculously low-cut V-neck shirts in a blue so dark it was nearly black. Stiles  _knows_  Peter knows, however, because Peter is Peter: a slow smirk and a pointed comment, and the boy realized afterwards that the older man was now just waiting to see what he wanted to do with the information. But–bits and pieces of his pack, near him, touchable, layered through and through with their scents. Some of the others will get it, he knows. Some won’t. But that hidden drawer feels a little bit like home.

↬ | Loki’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as they brushed against the edge of Stiles’ jaw; for a man who was a god, his hands were callous-free, palms and long, pale digits silky-soft as his touch skimmed over his protege’s skin. The boy knew what was coming the moment that the Trickster tilted his chin upwards, coaxing Stiles’ face level with his own with those impossibly clever hands. An amber gaze met a verdant one, eyes hard as emeralds and as vivid as them, too, and Loki’s mouth slotted over Stiles’ even as the teen slowly let his eyes close in a gesture of trust. Lips brushed, magic Sparking bright and ozone sharpening into something more as an Inferno raged with every swipe of the god’s tongue into the wet heat of the Midgardian’s mouth, an Arctic chill freezing the burn before it could do any true harm, though Stiles could have sworn that his bones were now lined with hoarfrost. When Loki eventually broke the kiss, he did so slowly–pulling away bit by bit, teeth scraping lightly over the teenager’s bottom lip hard enough to sting before ending the surge of pure energy completely. Lashes lifting to meet the god’s bright gaze, question in his own eyes, Stiles could see how his breath was cold enough to fog in the air between the both of them–how his lips were a dark, dark blue. “A secret: that is what I have gifted to you,  _min skatt_ ~” the god purred out, eyes gleaming with a malicious sort of cat-like satisfaction.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mccallofthewild:  
>  _I want the K._  
>  *12: Chest Kiss

There was something quietly reassuring in the listening to the steady, constant  _thud-thud-thud_  of the beating of Scott’s heart, the pulse rhythmic against the pale, mole-speckled arch of Stiles’ cheek as he pressed it against the other teen’s chest. The Kaijuu attack earlier that day and the resulting battle against the grotesque beast had been… close. Too close.

He settled closer to Scott, lashes lowering to close his amber eyes as Stiles turned his head to the side: lips parting just the slightest bit, the boy pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the area just over the other’s heart. He could almost  _taste_  Scott’s pulse against his tongue, skin warm against his lips even as he shifted just enough to slot their bodies together in such a way that was already becoming instinct, second nature, to Stiles.

The teen nuzzled over Scott’s chest, adding just the faintest hint of teeth–edges catching over the other’s nipple even as Scott slowly began to awaken, body arching beneath Stiles’ touch, rising to consciousness with a deep, hungry inhale that expanded his chest and quickened the familiar beat beneath Stiles’ lips–and maybe Stiles was teasing now (he totally couldn’t be blamed for it), but there was no hiding the sly, satisfied curve of his smirk as his mouth sealed roughly over Scott’s nipple:

Stiles’ tongue laved over the pebbled bit of flesh, teeth latching and tugging lightly (and perhaps it had everything to do with the accusation that Scott had tossed Stiles’ way the first time they had met–because Stiles always,  _always_  fought dirty and was more than happy to turn the tables to put the other teen at the disadvantage). Humming low in his throat, the teen rubbed his cheek over Scott’s chest–skin warm and soft and smooth against his own–and shifted further to pepper kisses here and there. More and more and more, showering affections and sweetness upon the sleepy pilot, just–

So incredibly happy that Scott was here, was still alive, had managed to survive another fight. Nipping just beneath the teen’s left pectoral, Stiles traced the tip of his nose along the sharp, defined lines of Scott’s muscles, lashes fanning over tanned skin in the lightest of butterfly kisses as he breathed in the scent of home.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itsappledipshit:  
>  _Send me “Oh shit” to see my muses reaction to yours when they walk in as they’re undressing in the changing room._

It’s a new change, a new shift.

Stiles isn’t used to having Henry home again.   
And why should he be? It hasn’t even been a day yet.

There are patterns of behavior that he knows that he’ll have to adjust for now; when their dad leaves for the start of a double-shift down at the police station, Stiles is no longer completely alone in the house. The rooms no longer gape yawningly hungry and dark, the silence pressing in from all around him—the silence that he fills with the blaring sound of his stereo, pounding bass throbbing on the floorboards (his music taste switches depending on his mood and, for right now, he’s in one of  _those_  moods) even as he completely strips down to change into the soft fabrics, the almost cottony touch of the flannels of his pajamas.

So used to an empty house all to himself for hours—sometimes it feels like days at a time— _Stiles_  doesn’t bother to lock his bedroom door as he changes clothes and readies for bed. And  _Henry_  doesn’t bother knocking.

(They’re going to have to re-learn each other, find new habits and bring back old ones that fell into ‘once-upon-a-time-ago’ when Henry left and Stiles stayed: establish a rhythm, a pattern that’s them and not, something to fall into sync with yet again, steps one-two, one-two and easy as breathing—)

Stiles stares at his brother, amber eyes wide and surprised, and he’s absolutely, utterly frozen to the spot. This is the type of scene that always happens in shows and it’s supposed to be comedic—really, it is, the audience always laughs—but the teen can’t really find anything quite all that hilarious about this situation. A bit humiliating? Sure. Most definitely. Stiles doesn’t even have to touch his cheeks to feel the heat of his blush coming off of them, knows that he’s probably that mottled red he gets sometimes when he flushes abruptly—can’t really help it, but. Can’t do anything to stop it, either.

And perhaps it’s a movement from Henry or a change in tempo in the song or instinct emerging into fight or flight urges, the sudden need to finally actually respond in some way—but that endless moment of shocked staring breaks as Stiles jerks around, limbs already in motion, so that Henry sees only the pale, mole-speckled line of his back and shoulders tapering down to his waist, the firm swell of his ass, the long, well-muscled and toned runner’s legs that lacrosse and cross-country have given to Stiles, and he’s quickly enough shimmying into his flannel pajama bottoms, fingers working  just a bit frantically and not able to tug the waistband up over his thighs and hips fast enough for his liking.

He knows that the tips of his ears are pink in embarrassment, knows that this is Henry, his  _twin_ : they’ve kept in contact, sure, texting and emailing and Skyping as often as humanly possible… but it’s been a while since they’ve actually been face-to-face in person (almost immediately following mom’s funeral) and there’s an element of disconnect that makes Henry feel almost like ‘stranger’ within Stiles’ mind, that generates that embarrassment  _now_  no matter the fact that they used to share baths together back in the day (with photos in the albums, even) and, yeah, were pretty much identical in every single way. But, still, that discomfort. That embarrassment. The almost-desperate need to cover up in front of someone who had previously seen him naked a million times before ( _before_  but  _not_ , because there are differences now, because the time apart has also changed the both of them physically—Henry wears his glasses regularly nowadays, for starters—and Stiles is left feeling Awkward, reaching for the only way he knows how to break tension for sure).

“…Jesus fucking Christ, Henry, it’s called  _knocking_ ,” Stiles can’t help but comment finally, when his pajama pants are around his middle and he’s already reaching for his shirt. Gathering the courage needed to play things off and make a joke out of it—because the audience needs the laughter and Stiles has always been placed in the role of court jester—he tosses a raised eyebrow over his shoulder at his twin. “It’s when you apply your knuckles to the door and hit it a couple of times to, you know, let the other person know that you want entrance to their area before you go barging in. In case they’re—oh, I don’t know— _naked as the day they were born_ , dude.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _My character is dead and yours is playing with a ouija board. Send me a “↝” for the short phrase my character would guide your character’s hands to spell._

There were lots of things that were shitty about being dead.

People always talked about the light, heading into it–about being enveloped in a feeling of welcome or acceptance or love. Others sometimes mentioned being greeted by family members and friends who had died before them or having their hands being taken hold of by guardian angels. So many tales told all throughout the years, and Stiles was able to finally call bullshit on each and every single one of them.

None of it had been true. None of it had happened.

There had been pain, blinding and all-consuming, the screams of his pack in his ears. Then there had been silence and cold and the monotone setting as all the colors around him bled out until the only thing that Stiles was left with was black and white and the muted shades of grey.

And from his position on just this side of the Veil, nothing but mist and aether and people’s dying breaths separating them, Stiles could see his pack–friends and family, both–mourn his death.

It surprised him then, when he came to the realization that it was Erica that was taking his loss the hardest. Just an empty, middle school crush: that was what the she-wolf had claimed the one time that Stiles had discovered Erica’s interest in him, once upon a time ago. But… the amber-eyed teen also hadn’t had a werewolf’s refined senses, so there was no way that Stiles would have been able to know if she had been lying or telling the truth.

The way that Erica stared down at a Ouija board, night after night…

Perhaps that was Stiles’ real answer.

In the end, it had taken weeks to gather together the required, necessary energy–loose and floating and untapped, ambient, in the air–to breach the Veil. Just a single hand, but that was all that Stiles needed. Hopefully.

When the Ouija board’s cursor nudged itself across the board on its own one Thursday night, five months after Stiles’ death, Erica stared down at it with wide, coffee-dark eyes. There was an instinctive knowledge, marrow deep and echoing in the magic that called from pack member to pack member, even across far-off distances–

She knew it was Stiles.

I-s-h-o-u-l-d-h-a-v-e-d-o-d-g-e-d-f-a-s-t-e-r.  
I-m-s-o-r-r-y.  
D-o-n-t-c-r-y-E-r-i-c-a.  
I-m-i-s-s-y-o-u-t-o-o.

The she-wolf gasped softly as she felt an ice-cold fingertip brush across the smooth, tanned skin of her cheek, clumsily nudging away the tear that had fallen from her eyes as Stiles carefully moved the cursor from letter to letter, but that attempt almost seemed pointless when more tears began to fall as the ghostly touch just barely managed to tuck a strand of blonde behind the delicate curve of an ear.

“Don’t go,” Erica whispered.

(But the Ouija board’s cursor didn’t move again.)


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bigguywithclaws:  
>  _Put “Claimed” In my ask box and I’ll generate a number below. NSFW Version_  
>  5\. Own me tied in bed naked for two nights

If asked and pressed to answer honestly, Stiles would say that he didn’t quite know just how he got himself into as many situations as… well, he did. Maybe it was an unfortunate mix of curiosity, the allure of temptation that he’d never been able to resist—even Stiles realized that his impulse control was next to nil, and an incredible amount of power that tended to backlash in the most interesting and unfortunate of ways when things went so very, very wrong.

(Though, in this particular case, the Spark wasn’t sure if this was more ‘so very, very wrong’ or ‘so very, very right.’ Either option was a very real possibility and… it all rather depended on his partner’s reaction in this particular case.)

Huffing a breath, Stiles tugged at the collar that was, in turn, attached to a chain that was further—somehow or other (magic worked in some fucked up ways sometimes)—connected to Derek’s bedframe. Why the teleportation from the Bureau, why the nakedness, why Derek’s bed—all things that Stiles didn’t want to look at too closely. The unfortunate thing in all of this? The main part of the spell worked like a charm. Which meant that the collar and chain—the literal bindings, a warping of the spelled handcuffs he’d been trying to make for the next time he and the Alpha went out into the field—wouldn’t be wearing off for several days. Nothing would break them: not magic, not physical force, not a mix of various chemicals in a solution, nothing.

Stiles was effectively… stuck.

Fiddling with his partner’s home phone’s handset, the ‘wolf’s bedsheets covering his bare lap, Stiles ran a nail up and down the seam of the handset as he waited for Derek’s arrival and tried not to think about just how upset the Alpha would be with the Spark’s unintentional invasion of his home—and, specifically, his bedroom.

Glancing up when he heard the room’s door start to open, Stiles grimaced sheepishly and fought the urge to go pink in embarrassment at his current predicament—the failing of his experiment and his nudity, both—and the fact that he wouldn’t have the promised handcuffs for Derek by the date Stiles had tossed out in a fit of pique when the Alpha had riled up his temper and his pride in talent and intelligence both.

“…so, uh. I can explain. And it’s even a  _good_  explanation, I  _swear_ ,” Stiles began, nervously rubbing a thumb over the dip of the opposite collarbone.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> derekslament-archive-deactivate:  
>  _Send ‘SPIT IT OUT!’ and I’ll randomly generate a number. Whatever number it is, my muse will blurt it out to you!_  
>  30\. Purple monkey dish washer.

”Purple monkey dish washer.”

Derek’s head lifted slowly from where he’d been previously looming intimidatingly over his… tax returns? Huh. That was something that Stiles wouldn’t have at all pegged the Alpha ‘wolf for—the fact that Derek did his taxes, willing to put money on the fact that the older man was instead a member of that ‘fringe population’ that you sometimes heard about in various classes, the people who tended to live underground—troll-like—and preferring to live under society’s radar.

…but, then again, with the furniture in his loft and the cars that Derek tended to prefer driving… yeah, there was no way that the Alpha would be able to get away with any of those things unless he actually managed to pay his taxes like a good American citizen. Blinking away from the various forms spread out in front of the ‘wolf, Stiles lifted his gaze once more to meet Derek’s eyebrows, sighing quietly when he was met with the combination of ‘…what the hell?’ and ‘Have you been sniffing glue, Stiles?’

(A proud thing to note: The angle of and depth of furrowing between Derek’s eyebrows for the latter expression was one that was unique and completely applied only to Stiles-related situations. Which meant that Derek now had a Stiles!expression that he used for Stiles himself for, as stated, Stiles-related situations—something that no other member of the pack could boast of, not even Peter, the evil and snarky zombie uncle.)

Going slowly this time, the amber-eyed teen leaned in closer and carefully enunciated each word as it crossed his lips: “Purple. Monkey. Dish. Washer.”

Okay, so there was less ‘…what the hell?’ and more ‘Have you been sniffing glue, Stiles?’ this time around. Still, this was something that the Spark could work with. Eventually, Derek would get a clue. He was one smart puppy—sometimes.

”Purple monkey dish washer,” Stiles repeated, going just as slowly, words just as enunciated—and tone of voice just as aggravated as before. Hoping, perhaps, that the lightbulb would finally go off for Derek and that the clue would be had. There wasn’t any point in writing his current issue down, either: he was faced with the same problem… as Stiles had learned with the several others he’d attempted before braving the Alpha’s loft. Instead of dawning comprehension, however, Stiles was offered a quirked eyebrow—which, hey! New expression. That the teen would later have to interpret. For now, though…

Throwing his hands up in the air, he stomped his way into a circle, making the circuit tighter and tighter with each and every pass. “Purple dish monkey wash!  _Dish washer!_  Purple washer monkey—dish dish purple dish. Purple monkey dish washer!  _Purple monkey dish washer!!_ ” The words, all in various combinations of themselves, became more aggravated and frustrated every turn that Stiles took, and the gestures of his hands through the air were taking on an even more wild tone as they waved this way and that.

Until a well-muscled arm reached out and gently brought the agitated teen to a halt with a broad hand over Stiles’ chest. He glanced down to that hand and followed its way up the arm that it was attached to to look into Derek’s long-suffering but still somehow amused expression. “Did you attempt a spell without having Deaton or his sister or, hell,  _Peter_  there and have it backfire on you horribly?” the Alpha asked, already well aware of what the answer would be. Lower lip immediately sticking out in a pout of epic proportions, Stiles nodded. And Derek did nothing to resist the temptation to roll his eyes heavenward.

Hand still settled over the fluttering beat of Stiles’ heart, Derek continued: “And I assume that you know how to reverse whatever you did…?” If anything, Stiles’ lower lip jutted out further as he drooped even more, nodding cautiously as he watched the ‘wolf from beneath the thick veil of his lashes. “…all right, fine. Might as well tell me how to break the ‘curse’ that you’re under, moron.” Cringing a bit at that, the teenager gestured to the older man’s mouth and then immediately pointed to his own. The cure, so to speak, seemed simple enough and had Derek eyeing the boy in front of him, tongue lightly wetting his lower lip as he considered just what might happen  _afterwards_  if he actually went ahead and kissed Stiles—spell or no.

And yet, try as he might otherwise, Derek knew that it had been a foregone conclusion the moment that Stiles had pointed to his mouth: his grip shifted just enough to wrap his fingers in the teen’s ridiculous graphic t-shirt to draw the amber-eyed magic-user in closer, shifting his hold to around Stiles’ waist once the younger boy was close enough to do so. The ‘wolf’s head descended just as Stiles tilted his the smallest bit upwards, and their lips brushed once in a chaste kiss—lingering for just a moment, lips sliding against lips, before Derek slotted his mouth more firmly over the Spark’s to deepen it. He could feel Stiles shudder against him, even as it was the teen’s tongue stroking playfully over the slight indent of the Alpha’s lower lip—

”Stiles! Deaton finished the potion you need to drink to break the spell!” Allison’s voice rang out, followed soon after by Scott and Isaac’s familiar chatter, as the heavy metal door to the loft clanged open with werewolf strength. That chatter, however, soon enough came to a dead halt at the sight of Derek and Stiles kissing.

…a sight which ended soon enough with Derek lifting his head to look down at Stiles, who was grinning like the Devil himself. “Purple monkey dish washer,” the teen informed the Alpha smugly, licking his lips to catch at the remaining taste of the kiss.

Derek’s eyebrows went high and his jaw dropped a little—and it was the second expression of the day that Stiles would have to add to his list; score! two-for-one. “You little shit,” the ‘wolf informed the human in his arms, tightening his hold just the smallest bit more now that he was allowed, and Stiles laughed brightly, unrepentantly.

Frustration of the spell aside—purple monkey dish washer, indeed—it had done exactly what it had promised and Stiles? Stiles was the cat who had gotten the cream and the canary all in one go.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iraetlunam-archive:  
>  _Since memories triggered by scent are the strongest…_  
>  Send my muse a scent and see how they’ll react to it.  
> *Cinnamon

Cinnamon is Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

Easter.

Special, celebratory dinners.

Cinnamon is peeking over the edge of the kitchen counter since he’s still so very small, not yet hit his first growth spurt, to watch his mother peel away the skins from the sweet potatoes. They have a particular scent to them, not quite sweet but not quite pungent, either—distinct when cooked, and Claudia makes her movements slow enough so that Stiles can observe with wide amber eyes, focus so sharp on the confident, easy motions of her fingers as she reveals the orangey vegetable beneath. She slices the sweet potatoes thickly, laying the ‘meat’ of the vegetable flatly along the bottom of a casserole dish, stacking the slices into a second layer when she runs out of space. There’s a bit extra, just a small piece of sweet potato, and she  _could_  make room for it amongst all of the other slices,  _but_ … Claudia catches sight of Stiles’ hopeful, bright gaze and she gives a quiet laugh as she hands over the unnecessary slice.

Stiles happily stuffs the slice of sweet potato into his mouth quickly enough, licking his lips to catch the extra mash—sweet potatoes the only way Claudia can actually get him to eat potato- _anything_ , and this is something she’s had to learn rather quickly and early on during his toddler years—and the boy leans against his mother’s hip, still watching, as she gathers together some butter and brown sugar, water, salt, mace, nutmeg, cloves, allspice, and—of course—cinnamon. Everything is mixed together in a pan and put over a low-burning flame; when the sauce is just enough done, just as she’s done since Stiles has been old enough to be trusted not to hurt himself around the stove, Claudia glances sidelong down at her son and quirks one eyebrow at him.

“Do you mind stirring for Mama while she runs to the bathroom, Asbjørn?” she asks lightly and, as Stiles always does, the young child beams up at his mother and quickly nods his head. He’s getting heavier for her to lift up onto the counter, but Claudia is strong enough still for this: handing him the wooden spoon and giving her whiskey-eyed baby boy a kiss on the cheek that’s all sound and affection and answered by childish giggles, she slips away to hover just beyond the kitchen doorway.

The child waits only a moment—just long enough to make sure that his mom is truly gone—and reaches for the bottle of cinnamon. The recipe for the spiced candied sweet potatoes only calls for half of a teaspoon of cinnamon. Stiles, however, dumps a fair amount more into the saucepan, stirring quickly so that Claudia won’t know what he’s done.

(Nevermind the fact that his hands now have a dusting of the light brown powder, as do the thighs of his long shorts, and a dark smear coats one cheek from the corner of a mouth to the delicate shell of an ear—how Stiles managed  _that_ , no one is ever quite certain.)

But Claudia comes back only moments later and steps up to the stove to inspect just how much cinnamon Stiles has added to the dish  _this_  time around. The damage isn’t  _too_  bad and the dish is still very much eatable: however, the bite of cinnamon will be noticeable—which John and Claudia both prepare themselves for, each and every time this dish is made.

And yet, the script is something that’s become tradition for the household and it’s with that in mind that Claudia takes back her spoon and resumes stirring the much-thicker sauce. “It looks like it’s coming along so nicely. You stirred so well while I was gone,” she praises, giving Stiles a smile that he returns in kind, ten-fold. “But~ baby-boy, it looks like there’s more in here than before… you didn’t happen to add more cinnamon to the sauce, now did you?”

“No, Mama,” Stiles answers, eyes wide and golden and reply so innocent that butter couldn’t melt in his mouth and  _this_ —this makes Claudia laugh, bright and loud and happy, because she knows just how much trouble Stiles is going to be for her and John both when he gets older, her baby-boy with the silvered tongue, and she  _cannot wait_  for the adventures her son will put her through.  

Her baby-boy that smells, always, of frost and pine and the fresh promise of youth, of the sharp scent of his new medication and the warning undertones of ozone as his Spark begins to flicker and burn brighter than the noonday sun—and cinnamon, sweet and spicy and warm and  _hers_ , her baby-boy.

*   *   *

Stiles can remember the last time he had made his favorite dish when he was younger: it had been different, having his dad standing next to him at the stove instead of his mom and… afterwards, both Stilinski men had just silently agreed to forego the traditional dish at future meals: Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter—years passed, food was shared around the table, but never the spiced sweet potato dish.

Closing the tab on the small bottle of cinnamon from where he had opened it to taste the spice for freshness, Stiles blinked absently before reaching to place the container in the shopping cart he’d been pushing. The teen paused, hesitating a moment, and finally allowed the small bottle to fall from his fingers and into the main compartment.

“…so,” Stiles began, pushing the cart just hard enough so that he could catch up with Derek, allowing his stride to match the older werewolf’s so that they could keep pace with one another. “I was thinking that a pack dinner would be a nice thing to have. Maybe once every or every other week. People bring in dishes that they sign up for and… we all just get together on that day and share the meal. What do you think?”

(Maybe it’d be a nice thing to have together, a way to bond and connect and meet under even terms. Perhaps Stiles was already considering a potential dish to make.)

It’d be…  _Nice_.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fractumbeta-archive:  
>  _((Letters Meme))_  
>  ☣ - if you want my muse to write yours a warning letter

There had been little things that Stiles had oftentimes left in Isaac’s room; originally, he gifts had started with the small dog plush and had just… gone from there. The cake and wolf triskele pendant  he ended up giving the blonde beta for his birthday. The small blue-wrapped box that still remained a secret between them both–and would hopefully remain so because, otherwise, Stiles would be getting in so much trouble from so many people (but he’d still think it was worth it and do it again, anyway). Small things, little things that offered connection and the reassurance of pack: Stiles’ extra calculator, a more advanced one than Isaac had, for a harder math test the following day (given so that Isaac wouldn’t have to ask either Scott or Melissa for one, stuffed in the ‘wolf’s backpack to find when he got home from school); a book–humor dry and sarcastic–that Stiles thought that Isaac might enjoy reading in his down time; eventually, one night, an extra key to the Stilinski home tucked beneath the blonde teenager’s pillow, the key itself attached to a truly tacky ‘Han Shot First!’ keychain.

This, however…

This was less gift and more warning–wanting nothing more for Isaac to stay away because, unlike all the rest, the teen actually watched and noticed and  _saw_ , blue gaze thoughtful and accessing and so incredibly sharp that it sometimes took Stiles’ breath away, the sheer amount that Isaac saw (especially when he wished that the other wasn’t looking). But this letter, folded ever-so carefully and tucked just where Isaac pressed his comforter down after making his bed: it was all too-white paper and crisp lines, made with a care that was like–but not-like–the amber-eyed teen.

> You promised me ash  
>  Not even a stump to remain  
>  But the Darkness presses  
>  Deep  
>         Deep  
>                 **Deep**  
>  (I can’t sleep, Isaac,  _I can’t sleep anymore_ )  
>  And my feet go wandering places  
>             my mind can not (will not) follow  
>  I hear their voices calling  
>  Ancient, powerful, full of reckoning–  
>  While I find myself  
>              f a l l  
>                     i n g  
>                          where you can’t see me  
>  s   c   r   e   a   m   i   n   g  
>                     And praying that you don’t come–  
>  Don’t come, Isaac  
>                       Because you’ll keep them safe  
>  From  
>                             ME  
>  When I’m      **m e**     no longer.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laheytowin-deactivated20150807:  
>  _((Letters Meme))_  
>  ✂ - if you want my muse to write yours an unsent letter

Not many could see it, but there truly  _was_  a pattern of organization to Stiles’ particular brand of chaos. Things were grouped by importance, further connected by colors and distant relationships, though others might not immediately see those connections that Stiles almost seemed to find by instinct alone (one, two, three: always going through life looking for the pattern that he grew up learning; a Sheriff’s code, standard of behavior–that which always, always managed to catch the teen’s eye, no matter how little or faint or unlikely it might originally seem).

In the whirlwind mess of Stiles’ bedroom, his computer table remained unfailingly neat. No ragged, crumpled scraps of paper, books lined up with one another in an almost neurotic manner (perhaps not so neurotic, considering who was the one doing the organizing and the shelving and the placing things just-so in a symbolism of meaning that held only true meaning for Stiles himself).

And yet, amongst the lack of clutter and the too-neat lines that Stiles had made of his desk, the pack members who searched his room in the hopes of finding some sort of clue where the monster du jour had taken the amber-eyed magic user to–perhaps even Isaac himself searching through the table and its various drawers–would come across a thin stack of papers (most of them blank, ready to be written upon) tucked within the hidden, detachable part of the teen’s computer table. Various letters to different people, all of them unsent, half of them unfinished: one of them to the blonde beta in question.

> I hate(d) you because I  ~~see~~  saw you as a threat  
>  Scott was all I had for the longest time  
>  And you fit so seamlessly, slotting against him better'n me  
>  Off you went, doing werewolfy things together  
>  Bonding over things that I could never, ever  
>  see or hear or smell or taste, senses that were too dull  
>  and human; boring in the way that he wasn’t now.  
>  The token human sidekick. Robin, but forgotten.  
>  And unneeded. Because he had you.  
>  You had the sarcasm down, the quips, the smarts,  
>  You noticed things before the others and–  
>  They listened to you when they never did me.  
>  –we grew up calling each other “brother.”  
>  Still sometimes do, especially when something is…  
>  Hard.  
>  But you were the one he welcomed into his house  
>  (never did that for me, not even after my mom died)  
>  you were the one who was given the house key  
>  (I had to copy mine on the sly, quick and furtive)  
>  you get the brother who was once my best friend  
>  And I stand here, alone and packless, and   
>  can’t help but wonder…  
>  If I howled, would anyone come?  
>  I hate that feeling because it reminds me of my promise,  
>  the one I made while I stood before my mom’s grave.  
>  I promised myself that I wouldn’t let anyone else in  
>  (because that leaves you open and with people to lose)  
>  and I broke that promise so fucking easily.
> 
> And I hate you for it because you made the difference  
>  the first time you made a joke and I was surprised  
>  into genuine laughter–and you didn’t even realize,  
>  not at all, you bastard, just what you’d done.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> justmccallmeangel:  
>  _Send a ♚. Your character falls asleep on mine, I’ll reply with what mine does._

The stench of wet dog clung to Scott now.

Jerking back from where he had buried his face against the crook of his best friend’s throat—the gesture familiar enough that the sleeping teen had only tilted his head back further for Stiles, neck bared and vulnerable and Scott so  _trusting_ of the predator that had been his best friend since they were both four years old—the weretiger glared at the spot were the boy’s scent was strongest:

Just behind the hinge of the jaw and under the ear, pressed up snugly with the beating of Scott’s heart pulsing steady and reassuringly in Stiles’ sharp ears each and every time he burrowed in against the curve of Scott’s throat; it was a scent as familiar as Stiles’ own, barely even changed even through adolescence (a kind edge to it that made the large cat want nothing more than to curl ‘round it and purr softly), but now—Scott smelled like  _dog_.

Baring teeth, canines now delicate points, Stiles gave a low, unhappy growl of displeasure at the fact that an Alpha werewolf must now be in Beacon Hills and had somehow managed to bite Scott while he and the ‘cat had been separated (and Stiles had done some fast talking in order to convince his dad to actually let him leave the woods unescorted). It was the sound, however, that caused the other teen to stir from his slumber: brows furrowing and fingers twitching towards the warmth that was fading from Stiles’ usual napping spot, Scott gave a low whine of distress that was already more canine than anything else and…

The weretiger relented.

“Shhh,” Stiles murmured before again tucking his nose in against the edge of his best friend’s jaw, a rumbling purr filling the air between them both and soothing away the acrid smell of unhappiness that had begun to settle around Scott’s sleeping form. And while the ‘cat wasn’t exactly all that pleased himself at the fact that Scott had managed to get bitten by a werewolf (absently rubbing his cheek over the other teen’s throat to try and mask the scent of dog a bit because, well, Stiles’ altruism could only extend  _so_ far)… weretigers were, by nature, more solitary creatures than most. Despite that tendency, however, their friendship had lasted this long.

–and the saying about cats and dogs wasn’t  _always_  true.

Tangling their legs together, Stiles continued his quiet purr as his fingers combed through Scott’s thick hair, fingertips brushing over the other’s scalp and drawing away the pain from the wound at his side until there was nothing left but the scent of sleepy contentedness, coriander, springtime woods, and puppy.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ionlyhadonefriend:  
>  _sentence meme: // Send my muse one of the following to see how they react:_  
>  *"What are you?"

“Magic.”

It was odd seeing Stiles so still: the boy who was known for being incapable of keeping motionless lay sprawled out over the springtime grass, freshly sprouted and as soft as velvet against the teen’s mole-speckled skin.

He wiggled his toes deep into the damp dirt, knowing just what type of picture he must look like to the beta ‘wolf and unable to bring himself to particularly care. There was a sharp sense of  _life_ that Sparked against his fingertips, making his head dizzy and lightheaded as Stiles fought to keep himself from being overwhelmed and overtaken and drowned in deepoverreaching _green_.

The teen inhaled—lungs, chest, ribs, self, all expanding far and wide and stretching and stretching and  _stretching_  until all he was was soul and spirit and the burning force of willpower that molded reality to his own belief—and finally opened his eyes, gaze meeting Boyd’s and flaring beta gold for just a moment before Stiles offered the towering ‘wolf a slow and easy smile, mouth sulky-sweet and just the tiniest bit lopsided with his grin.

Reaching out into the thin air that separated them both, the boy plucked lightly at something only he could see with long pianist fingers, nimble and knowing and somehow shifting something within the forest and the trees that stretched far and beyond—laughing suddenly with head tilted just-so to the side, listening to sharply plucked notes that were mute to all but Stiles himself.

Shaking his head absently, the teen quirked a dark brow at Boyd and offered the werewolf a conspiring smirk. “The rest of the pack is coming if you wanted to go set up an ambush and lie in wait. Don’t ask, don’t tell: I promise I won’t say a word~”


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guardianofbeaconhills-blog:  
>  _Leave a “Mourn Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character mourning your character’s death._

Stiles did not fall apart.

He knew that his father wouldn’t have wanted that. While it was true that a fence had been built between the both of them, made up of experiences and words and lies that neither of them could talk about–the first picket coming down the night of Stiles’ mother’s death–that fence had never been high enough to keep them from seeing each other, from touching, from hugging. It was an obstacle, sure, but one that could have been overcome if given enough time and effort.

But despite the slight distance that had grown–and the several posts that had come down once his dad had come to know the truth about Beacon Hills–Stiles  _did_  know that his father  _wouldn’t_ have wanted him to fall apart. So he didn’t.

He went to the funeral and didn’t cry. He went to school and stopped getting in trouble there. He buckled down and sharpened his focus and his grades soared even higher. He kept the house cleaner than it had been in years. He cooked himself three full meals, everyday, made with ingredients that he had triple-checked before finally purchasing.

The community of Beacon Hills would look at the Sheriff’s son, impressed with his fortitude and ability to continue on through his grief–Stiles’ determination to plow his way forward despite the loss of both of his parents and the fact that he had no other family member to lean on. No other support system to fall back on. Still a year from being eighteen, the state ruled that he was ‘close enough’ when looking over his finances, grades, and history, and then cut him loose.

They never knew that Stiles would come home to an empty house with an empty heart, finish his homework with an empty mind, eat his dinner with an empty stomach–and finally curl up in his dad’s bed, Sheriff’s uniform pressed tight to his face as he tried desperately to catch the fading scent of his father’s Stetson aftershave.

Fading, fading, fading away–and Stiles’ heart was broken.

He sobbed, body shaking with every gasped breath, until he finally slept.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harbingerlydia-archive:  
>  _Send me a prompt and I’ll write a 4-5 sentence drabble about it_  
>  *Prompt: Lydia being bitten by a rogue wolf. (Your choice if Alpha/Beta etc.)

The moon paints the woods in shades of silver and black, mist deepening the shadows into a constantly shifting nightscape that coaxes both caution and calls to something buried deep within Stiles’ marrow, ancient and wild and savage and wanting nothing more than to have feet pound over the forest floor and the coppery tang of blood upon his tongue.

The werewolves are restless, eyes flashing gold and blue and red when the light catches them just so–and Stiles knows that it isn’t much longer before they’re gone, loping amongst the trees and at one with the night and the moon and the woods and the certain type of magic that falls through the air when the earth settles low and most others take to their beds.

There is something that calls to the ‘wolves, and it echoes dully in Stiles’ bones, but he cannot join them; Lydia whines softly, sound barely audible as she presses her snout against the thin skin of her mate’s throat, scenting his longing–resisting the call of the pack to stay with the Boy Who Runs With Wolves.

“Go,” Stiles whispers against the sharp triangle of her ear, long fingers burying in Lydia’s auburn fur, “ _go_.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harbingerlydia-archive:  
>  _Send me a prompt and I’ll write a 4-5 sentence drabble about it_  
>  *Prompt: Derek working on Stiles' jeep by hand. Shirtless.

There is something so incredibly appealing about watching Derek work on Stiles’ Jeep: there is an efficiency to the older man’s gestures, sharp and short and quick, and it is readily apparent in every movement that Derek knows exactly what he is doing. Expertise, experience, routine–solidity built upon rock-hard foundation–looks good on the alpha werewolf, seems to center him in a way that nothing had before Derek came back from South America.

The teen watches was the older man stretches out over the engine of his Jeep, stomach muscles flexing, rippling smoothly beneath tanned and sweat-slick skin, as Derek reaches for a wrench with grease-stained fingers. Stiles rests his chin on his forearms, amber gaze going heavy-lidded and lazy as his eyes trail over the thick weight of Derek’s arms, the sharp definition that lay within the dips and valleys and half-circle curves of his biceps–the bared, vulnerable line of the werewolf’s throat, and finally to a pair of too-pale eyes that watches him with the stillness of a predator.

“Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf? Not me, not me,” Stiles murmurs lowly, hiding a sly smile behind the crimson sleeve of his hoodie.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _Leave a “Tell Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character confessing something to yours [be it a love confession, a secret, feel free to specify.]_

Erica’s weight was a solid, comfortable familiarity against Stiles’ chest as the she-wolf settled back in the teen’s lap. There was a sense of foundation that came from warmth and pack both as their scents mingled, both squirreled away upstairs and out of the danger zone in Scott’s bedroom while the others clattered pots and pans together in the kitchen in a vague attempt at cooking.

“Why aren’t you downstairs helping them, anyway?” Erica asked the boy, glancing over the curve of her shoulder to give Stiles a sharply wolfish grin, teeth blindly white against the painted crimson of her lips. “You know that the idiots are going to burn the food without your help.”

Stiles snorted quietly in answer and reached around the blonde werewolf to fast forward through the opening credits of the next episode of Supernatural (a perfect mix of eyecandy, sarcastic banter, research material, and mocking fodder–pretty much the show that he and Erica typically defaulted to when it came to pack show watching night and cuddles, and when you added in all of the canon Dick jokes…? how could either of them resist?).

“Most of them are going to be on their own in two years–either in college or living in their own apartments or sharing a place with some other packmate. Me not helping now will ensure their survival later.”

Erica’s eyebrows arched high at that, doubt clear in the expression on her face even as she immediately quipped back: “You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that they’re all going to die of scurvy, haven’t you?”

The whiskey-eyed teen paused for a moment and then heaved a defeated sigh, shrugging both shoulders. “…dude, pretty much, yeah.”

As Sam and Dean and Castiel  _Blue Steel_ ed it up on Stiles’ laptop screen, the teen idly played with strands of Erica’s silky blonde hair with his long fingers–separating them into smaller pieces before threading them together, effortlessly weaving strand over strand, braiding the she-wolf’s hair into delicately intricate designs. Erica, for her own part, allowed this for quite a long time but–eventually, as Stiles knew she would–began to fidget and pluck at the threads of his jeans.

“Hey, can I ask you a question…?” she eventually asked, painted fingernails lengthening to claws and  _snip-snip-snipping_  away the loose threads that she had kept herself distracted with for as long as she possibly could before curiosity won out and the words fell from her lips.

“Sure,” Stiles answered easily enough as he twisted two braided sections together, twisting and twining and tucking them up and away from the nape of the elegant arch of the she-wolf’s neck. “But I can’t promise that I’ll answer it, Catwoman.”

It was surprising, just how tentative Erica almost seemed just then: gaze averted away from the other even as Stiles continued to absently play with her hair with fingers that were shockingly graceful in this particular context, how long it took the blonde-she wolf before she finally actually posed the question that had been tumbling about through her mind for years. A question that she desperately wanted the answer to, though the reason why no longer quite mattered, not anymore (perhaps never had)–but it was enough.

“Out of all of the girls that you could have fallen head over heels in love with for so long… why’d it have to be Lydia Martin?”

Stiles was silent for such a long time after Erica’s question that the girl started to believe that the teen wouldn’t actually answer her. When he stopped his absent braiding of her hair, she tensed slightly, shoulders curling up–tension building, tightening, widening in spreading circles between them both–as she waited for the other teen to lash out at her inquiry.

Instead, Stiles began to talk. Slowly, steadily, unrelentingly and brutally honest with his words. “My mom started to get sick the summer before third grade. Everyone told me that it was going to be all right, that she was going to be okay, but… I just had a feeling, you know? And I was right. She got worse and my dad just… started to fall to pieces along with her. Then she died and he’s never been the same since–because he loved her, so fucking much, with all his heart and soul even if it might sound like some clichéd BS. There’ll never be another love like her in his life again.  _Never_. She was  _it_  for him. And I don’t want that to ever happen to me. So I fell in love with the girl who was absolutely guaranteed to never once look twice at me.”

She curled back against Stiles’ chest, tucking her head just beneath the sharp angle of the teen’s pale jawline: curling tighter into a body-shaped comma in the ‘v’ of the boy’s lap. “Everyone in the pack is broken in some sort of way,” the werewolf admitted, looping her arms snugly around Stiles’ waist as Erica turned her attention back to the laptop and the episode of Supernatural still playing. “But sometimes you worry me the most because you’re the one who tends to break himself on purpose.”

Stiles was silent at that, but Erica could feel a pair of lips pressing to the top of the intricate braidwork that the other teen had threaded through her hair.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shexhowls:  
>  _In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they’ll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours._

Stiles had grown up on stories about his mother and father: murmured tales whispered late at night while fingers combed slowly through his hair and he cuddled close to a frail warmth that faded all too quickly. As the years passed and both he and his dad continued to clean through the house, letting go of various pieces of Stiles’ mother–those stories ended up being one of the few things that the teen managed to keep of hers, intangible though they always remained.

Pieces that he clung to, desperately, needing some reminder that she had lived, that she had loved him, that she had loved his father, that she had existed and mattered and so, sometimes, Stiles would stay up far too late and shaky with an overdose of Adderall, rubbing absently at the numbers that were slowly counting down to zero on his wrist while whispering his mom’s stories to himself in a voice that had gone hoarse from overuse hours ago.

Once upon a time ago, Stiles had been willing to hang Lydia Martin in the sky with the stars and the moon and the sun, imagining what it might be like if she was his soulmate, if her numbers ran down to zero at the same moment his did; but he had met her gaze hopefully too many times, her own glancing away from him disinterestedly, and there was disappointment and an acknowledgement that his own life wouldn’t be the fairy-tale romance that his own parents’ was (but Stiles still had his mother’s stories and, maybe, that was all that really mattered in the end).

Once upon a not-so-long ago, the teen learned–the hard way, as all life lessons must go–that though the fairy tale story with the fae godmother and the happily ever after ending never quite existed (except for his mom and dad, as all children tended to believe), the cautionary tale featuring the Big Bad Wolf was, indeed, very much  _real_. Stiles became a bit more wary of the dark and of the woods and, instead of a basket full of baked goods for the seniors in the community center downtown, tended to carry his trusty bat with him when shrugging into his own bright red hoodie.

The story grew, shifting from just one tale into a veritable Arabian Nights: story after story, night after night–and while it wasn’t the fairy tale romance where the prince won the heart of the princess, the stories he grew up on and still whispered to himself on the nights when the moon lay pregnant in the sky (stories he knew now weren’t completely true, simplified things told to a child to give comfort and provide a sense of foundation because love never truly came so simply or so easily), there was still magic and mystery and nightmares that lined each and every midnight shadow.

–and then, once-upon-a-full-moon-ago, with ribs still aching and bruised and knuckles raw and bloody and throbbing in time to the  _thud-thud-thud_  of the unsteady beating of Stiles’ heart, he glanced down at his wrist for the first time in months,

(there was only seconds left, numbers speeding down to zero)

couldn’t stop the slight hitch in his breath, heartbeat racketing so much faster–histories laid down with his own personal Scheherazade, fairy tales made bare and given falsehood beneath the moon’s light, princes and princesses with claws and fangs and the tendency to rip out your throat–but a lifetime’s habit was hard to break and…

**00:00:00**

Big Bad She-Wolf, newly bitten and all sharp, predatory angles, stepped into Beacon Hills High School’s cafeteria for the first time since her starkly contrasting transformative state: she paused, just for a moment, and met Stiles’ whiskey-hued gaze with her own matching set.

And grinned.

(What big teeth you have! †  _The better to eat you with, Little Red._ )


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thebetatohisalpha:  
>  _Send me “that’s dirty” and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours._  
>  52\. I’m not wearing any underwear.

It felt like forever since the last time that Stiles and Scott had been able to spend the night at each other’s house—age and school and sports and slightly differing schedules and then, finally, ‘getting the girl’ (Scott always luckier in that department than Stiles himself) making things like sleepovers a thing of the past. But with the Nogitsune’s possession, the Alpha ‘wolf had started staying a bit closer: the amber-eyed teen had lost count of the number of times he’d feel a gaze settle upon him and, after glancing upwards, his eyes would catch and hold Scott’s own carmine-tinted ones.

So. Stiles knew that the sleepover was due to his best friend’s lingering concern, but… it was time with Scott and a flashback to happier times and instances and memories where one friend would claim that one specific pillow mentally always known as that person’s—and. That was a good thing. Stretching out, shirt riding high on his abdomen, the Spark buried his toes in the creases of Scott’s bedsheets and tossed the other teen a wry grin. “So what’s the big plan for today, buddy?” he began, drawling playfully. “Am I finally gonna get you to watch  _Star Wars_?”

Before he had the chance to say anything further, the theme song from COPS trilled loudly from Stiles’ phone and the teen groaned in answer. Flopping a bit pathetically, much like a stranded fish, the Spark eventually managed to roll over enough to root around for the phone he’d left in the bag tossed carelessly on Scott’s bedroom floor. A few more moments of quick digging had Stiles emerging triumphant with his prize, and the teen just barely managed to answer his father’s call before it switched over to voicemail. “What’s up, Daddy-o?” he chirped in greeting, lazily rolling over and rucking up his best friend’s sheets in the meantime. No point in leaving the room, either—Scott would’ve been able to hear the phone conversation (both sides of it) all the way out to the backyard and the woods beyond.

“…Stiles,” the Sheriff began and maybe that was a little bit of amusement and a little bit of horror mixed into the tone of his voice. “So I went into your room to borrow your police radio scanner—which you know you’re not supposed to have in the first place, kiddo—and I happened to notice that you’re getting a little behind on some of your chores. And for Scott’s own sake, I had to call to make sure… despite the giant pile of laundry you haven’t done in… quite some time… did you at least manage to bring over a clean set of clothes?”

Stiles’ answering eyeroll was rather impressive. In fact, he was disappointed that his dad wasn’t there to witness it in person. “Yes, my shirt and my pants and my socks are all springtime, Tide fresh.”

Knowing that he’d probably end up regretting asking, John sighed audibly over the phone—even his son heard the ‘I’m so 10000% done with you.’ sound—and ventured in reply, “I noticed that you didn’t mention a certain,  _necessary_  piece of clothing, Stiles.”

To  _that_ , Stiles grinned widely, head lolling lazily to direct the shit-eating smile Scott’s way. “No _pe_ ,” the amber-eyed Spark gleefully responded, popping the ‘p’ and letting his lips stretch further in his mischief. Gaze meeting the Alpha’s, Stiles didn’t bother doing anything to try and hide the way that amusement made his eyes gleam brightly. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betawithascarf:  
>  _Somnophilia: I’ll write my/your character waking the other up by sex_

Awareness came in slow increments, lazy heat dulling Stiles’ senses and making him stupid with the clinging cobwebs of dreams. He was safe, warm and content and surrounded by the scent of Isaac as the amber-eyed teen buried his cheek against the pillow that carried the beta’s scent—weight shifting just-so over the bed, even as a familiar voice murmured, “Shhh… go back to sleep, Stiles.”

He was still tired and they had all stayed out late the night before (might as well have been morning with dawn lighting the horizon) chasing after Redcaps and it was the weekend so he didn’t have to worry about school. Stiles mumbled an incoherent agreement, nonsense words that somehow formed a sort of sense to the blonde teenager, and finally rolled over onto his belly to press his face against pillow and sheets, blocking out the light and the very idea of consciousness. Stiles slept, mind an empty field that stretched out endlessly all around him.

It had frightened him in the beginning, but now it was something that Stiles welcomed with open arms. Anything was better than the Nogitsune-spawned nightmares, waking hallucinations and blurred realities where the teenager wished for nothing more than what was now given to him—peace; emptiness; rest.

—the next time that Stiles was coaxed to that drifting, hazy state where sleep still managed to keep, fingers dragging him down—down— _d o w n_ —where unconscious beckoned with the temptation of a siren’s song, but—

Isaac teeth scraped hungrily over the curve of Stiles’ shoulderblade, and the teen’s lashes lifted just enough to show well-aged whiskey: a tease from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. “Okay?” the ‘wolf asked, voice going unintentionally husky as his broad hands skimmed down Stiles’ sides, boxing him in, palms settling possessively over the winged arch of the lanky teen’s hipbones.

Asking not about the dreams, his sleep, though there was an element to that, as well—but Isaac and Stiles had come to know each other well enough where a word, a glance, a shift of expression, of posture, a subtle change in scent, each small and silent cue had come to represent an entire conversation—Stiles for Isaac and Isaac for Stiles, and it was at that request, layered with such  _want_ , that the magic-user allowed himself to relax and go absolutely boneless beneath the beta’s muscled weight. “…yeah.  _Yeah_.”

There came a growl in response, low and rumbling and coming from the solid chest pressed so snugly against the dip and rise of his back, and Stiles couldn’t help but hide an amused smile against the crook of his elbow even as he finally allowed his lashes to drift close once more. Empty, reassuring dreams tugged insistently at the teen yet again, but before Stiles fell completely back asleep he heard the familiar sharp ‘click’ of the cap of lubricant snapping open, the small dip of the mattress being pressed down as Isaac crouched over the mole-speckled teen.

Sensations felt before, experiences that he had lost count of—the numbers too many with Isaac, some enjoyable, some not. But sex wasn’t supposed to be perfect every time. Relationships weren’t supposed to be perfect: ups and downs, highs and lows, and even when they fought—words raging hard and fast and nasty between them as only true assholes were capable of doing—there was something reassuring about waking up next to the ‘wolf the next morning, Isaac’s body curled around Stiles’ own, and the teen couldn’t help but sometimes wonder if this was how his parents also managed to still wake up the mornings after horrible fights.

( _He hoped so_ , nothing more than a stray thought, there and gone again, now more than halfway asleep.)

The blonde werewolf began to gently spread Stiles’ thighs, going slowly and steady enough so that even mostly asleep—barely even aware—there was still some part of the teen that knew what was going on, knew what was coming (trembled finely in anticipation of it, sweat beading in a light mist over the dimples at the small of his back), and oh _oh_ oh Stiles  **wanted**. He eased his legs further apart, toes curling into the cotton of the bed’s cover’s, and there was nothing that could muffle the small, broken sound that he couldn’t help but make as Isaac sunk his teeth into the meat of Stiles’ muscled thigh, lips and tongue and teeth sealing over pale skin just over Stiles’ femoral artery.

A multitude of conversations, all in one specific gesture, and he knew that  _Isaac_  knew it would piss him off: pointed comments made in the locker room during their next lacrosse practice, and Stiles was pale enough that nothing he did could stop the blush from overtaking his throat and face and ears—with Isaac standing in the background throughout it all, prick that he was, smirk firmly placed on his mouth.  _Bastard_.

Stiles stirred in irritation beneath Isaac’s taller and heavier bulk, annoyed human-growl muffled against their bedcovers, and it was a concentrated effort, movements and thoughts both sluggish and tar-thick, but the teen began pulling himself up from the tidal currents of his dreamless-dreams—all while the scent of ozone abruptly sharpened in the air; thunder lingering on the barest tip of the beta’s tongue, Isaac shivered at the casual hammerstroke of power that the other teen could control with the simplest power of belief, terrifying for how protectively cruel Stiles could be when provoked.

“Not yet, Stiles,” the werewolf soothed, hands stroking over the teenager’s legs until Isaac could cup his hands over the pale curve of the other’s ass, skin too-warm from a lazy morning in bed, the ‘wolf curled around him until just recently—and the blonde teen gave in to the impulse to let his claws grow, tips lightly marking the indents at the top of the arch of Stiles’ ass. The boy beneath Isaac hissed in pain, kicking at him with no true heat—used to the other’s wilder, much more feral instincts by now, willing to indulge Isaac up to a certain degree if only because   _p a c k_   had come before this (this, whatever this was, both never labeling it because maybe labels meant that  _this_ would end) and pack protected one another—and a mark was only a claim { m i n e }, and a small pain at that, that would soon enough be eased away with pleasure.

Warm liquid, slick and all too familiar, and Stiles let his lashes drift shut, succumbing to the familiar emptiness of his not-dreams once more as Isaac’s fingers began to breach his entrance, easing their way in slowly—idly—the werewolf taking his time and enjoying prepping Stiles when he was lax with sleep, relaxed around the blonde’s fingers and yet aware enough that his breath hitched as Isaac brushed his fingerpads over the teen’s prostate, hips lifting greedily for more—because, no matter the circumstance, Stiles was always and forever trying to push his luck—and there was a slow-burning sort of hunger that banked, waiting, at hearing just how Stiles’ heartbeat began to shift and quicken and race—

As Isaac used one finger - worked in a second - a third, Stiles’ breathing coming in desperate, soft whines, arousal heady and thick in the air (enough to overpower the scent of ozone, though the desire made Isaac nearly dizzy and lightheaded with his own deep-seated want, knowing instinctively that his eyes were beta gold and not a human hue in sight) - and a fourth, if only to see just how obscene the teen looked, stretched wide and ready for him — and partly, too, knowing that it was the wolf waking within him, distant howling ringing within his ears: possessive satisfaction at having this trust put in Isaac by the magic-user, the trust that had been forged through bonds and time and sidelong, mute understanding.

Dipping his head low, wary of the delicate points his canines had now become, Isaac peppered kisses over the small of Stiles’ back, fingers still leisurely working in and out of the other teen: taking his time, even as the blonde ‘wolf began to make his way up a mole-dusted, milky-pale spine, vertebrae knobby against Isaac’s lips—and yet pressing a kiss to every dip and rise and valley and hollow, the salt of Stiles’ sweat upon his mouth.

Finally settling over the still dozing teen, the beta ‘wolf buried his face against the hollow of Stiles’ throat, breathing in the familiar scent of the teen who would one day become their pack’s Emissary, and—it was a reassurance and a foundation and a stabilizer and so many things and nothing at all, and perhaps that was the most important thing: the way that Stiles, still drifting through his dreams, unconsciously arched his throat to bare it for Isaac.

It was enough.

Burying his snarl against the curve of Stiles’ throat, Isaac guided the head of his already-slicked cock against the other’s prepped entrance—pushing past that brief moment of resistance—and then there was only Stiles and ozone and the slide of his skin against Isaac’s and the bow of his body as the amber-eyed boy woke completely, lashes lifting wide as Isaac buried himself to the hilt — and there was heat **heat** heat and Stiles, even as the other teen gave a low, broken moan and pressed back as far as he could with the ‘wolf’s weight pinning him down to the mattress.

“Better—” Stiles began, Adam’s apple bobbing before Isaac sealed his mouth over it, canines delicately closing over the vulnerable part of the teen’s throat. “Better make it to me. For leaving the—bruise. You… asshole.”

“Haven’t heard you complain yet,” the beta ‘wolf replied readily enough, pulling away from Stiles’ throat to answer before once more shifting forward to press his face against that pale curve of the other’s throat, bared and tendon stretched and—there was something so fascinating about the magic-user’s throat, something that kept Isaac’s attention focused so razor-sharp, mouth sealed possessively and ignoring even now how Stiles just rolled his eyes in reply—

Until the werewolf’s hips snapped forward, and there wasn’t much thinking after that.

Pleasure, heat, taste of salt—sweat and just the barest hint of blood—shifting sense of mine and wolf urges of pack and safety and belonging—labels never really mattering between the both of them, not really, when words were so often used to deflect, anyway—but touch skimmed over shuddering skin—

“Isaac, fuck,  _please_.”

And there was that unexpected, vulnerable quality—please threaded through with a desperation that grew effortlessly with every brush of the ‘wolf’s hands over Stiles’ body, magic sparking between them (please please please), needing not to come, nothing so simple as all that: started here, now, with a request to trust Isaac and a wholehearted submission to that need: offering his body freely while he slept, unaware but knowing that Isaac wouldn’t push beyond what they would have both been otherwise comfortable with—

 _Trust_.  
A link—

Isaac’s claw-tipped fingers wrapped tight around Stiles’ wrist, clutching at him as if the other teen was the only solid land in a wind-tossed sea (and, in a way, that particular analogy was not that far off with pack bonds and anchors and Emissaries and the threads that connect every living thing but heighten so much more when magic was added to the mix)—pressed deep until his hips were flush against the curve of Stiles’ ass, the other teen arching back—greedy,  _greedy_ , always so greedy for more—as Isaac finally found his climax.

Snaking his free hand between his body and the mattress, it only took several strokes from his long-fingered pianists hands before Stiles was shuddering around the ‘wolf, clutching at the sheets as he silently road out his orgasm before collapsing on the stained sheets with Isaac still sprawled possessively over his lanky form.

Sticky and filthy and already a bit sore (and back to being just as exhausted as he had been when he had originally curled up under the blankets), Stiles turned his head just enough to the side, one eye opening to give Isaac a hazy (certainly lazy) glare.

"Your werewolf courting-slash-mating rituals suck.”

Not even bothering to dignify that with an answer since Stiles was being Stiles, Isaac just shifted his weight to settle that much more firmly over the other teen, warm and comfortable and home and with pack and grounded in a way that he hadn’t been since his brother had died—and maybe Stiles might have had a point, but he still wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer except:

“Go back to sleep, Stiles.”

“…are you going to fuck me again later?”

“Probably.”


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mahealanixdanny-deactivated2014:  
>  _Endytophilia: I’ll write my/your character having sex while clothed/partially clothed_

Danny knew that having the amount of patience that had long ago become the foundation that he built his entire personality on would one day finally manifest itself as either a blessing or a curse. Either scenario was equally likely, though friends and family members had always been firm in their belief that the only possible outcome for him would be that it was a blessing.

The older that Danny got, however, the less certain he became of their reassurances.

—the faith he held in his loved ones’ certainty becoming almost nonexistent, nothing more than a thread, started pretty much from the moment he met Stiles Stilinski. Loud, obnoxiously so, he was almost always completely in Danny’s peripheral vision: a constantly moving mess of color and flailing limbs and words and sarcasm, too smart for his own good and too funny for Danny’s. By the end of that first day of school, however, Danny had been ready to repeatedly smack Stiles on the head with his Duke Kahanamoku lunchpail. Stiles was just…  _too much_ , and the Hawaiian child was not at all surprised when Stiles’ mom had been asked to stay after class to discuss her son’s “behavioral issues.”

There were shifts in Stiles’ behavior, of course there were, the first immediately after he got tested for ADHD and was written a prescription for Adderall (still moving, still loud, still too many words and far too much sarcasm, but much better contained than before). Another change happened after his mom died, this one much more drastic with the amber-eyed preteen shutting down and closing ranks tightly around his dad and best friend and—Danny’s patience wasn’t so close to snapping on a daily basis anymore. With Stiles a whirlwind of action released whenever  _he_  felt it necessary, Danny found himself almost at a loss: not as easily annoyed, relaxed and easygoing and pretty much getting along with everyone he came across; Stiles had managed to train the Hawaiian’s patience into holding for epic amount of levels, and now it seemed as if very little could actually manage to get it to break.

Sometimes, Danny couldn’t help but shake his head at karmic irony—someone out there was laughing at him—especially since their positions were so readily reversed. While before, with Stiles always in his peripheral vision, now it seemed as if he was in Stiles’. Just on the outskirts, barely touching, watching: and as they got older, Danny wanted to move closer and see if the manic energy that he remembered from when they were kids still vibrated just beneath the other teen’s skin.

But with the waiting and watching and offered sarcastic commentary when the opening proved to be too good a temptation (Really, Stiles? “Like someone needs to sex me right now!”?), Danny noticed other things, too. Lines of power laid out through Beacon Hills, teenagers whose eyes flashed with color and whose abilities moved into the supernatural range overnight. It was almost insulting, actually, just how everyone sort of assumed that he didn’t notice  _anything_ , especially when he had been caught up in something weird on more than one occasion.

—okay, so, fine, perhaps Stiles still found new and inventive ways to stretch and poke at Danny’s patience unconsciously. Maybe some things would never change (and maybe some things could be  _both_  a blessing and a curse). But maybe, too, the teen was tired of fumbling for an answer without knowing all of the questions that he should be asking—wanting to know the truth that no one was willing to offer him, no matter how many times his own life ended up in danger. So when he heard the whiskey-eyed teen complaining to Scott about being out of favors with Danny and that ‘Miguel’ had just slammed the loft door in his face when asked to be used as hot guy bait, he didn’t bother trying to fight temptation because here was an opportunity to actually maybe corner Stiles for some answers about  _what was going on_  and—perhaps, too, he was tired of always being peripheral.

It was easy enough to come up to Stiles’ locker and lean casually against the cool metal plating, eyebrows up in amusement as he said, “You don’t have to always bribe me, you know. You could have just asked. What do you need help with?”

And—there, it was absolutely adorable, the way that Stiles immediately squinted at Danny suspiciously, waiting for the punchline to be delivered (to which he would be the butt of, obviously), but still cautiously returned with: “…it’s another computer favor. Of the less than legal kind.”

Danny just nodded agreeably to that and said that he’d be over around eight.

Hours later and looking back (since hindsight was 20/20), though, he desperately wished he had reconsidered a wardrobe change that consisted of comfort over style because he had  _forgotten_  just how unaware Stiles was of other people’s personal bubbles, especially when alone—and, if anything, that issue had only gotten  _worse_ since the last time Danny had come over to help the other teenager.

“Okay, but see? The financials track and appear squeaky clean, but… I think that there’s more to it and my dad can’t look into it because there’s no proper cause. I was doing more digging, though, and I think that this is actually a newer identity, maybe not even a couple of months old, which is why nothing is coming up and—fuck, where did I put the list with the other potential names…?” Stiles muttered as he began digging through his pile of papers on the bed. Everything seemed to be a chaotic mess to the Hawaiian teen, but there was obviously a system used that the other seemed to understand because it was only moments later that Stiles lifted his head with an annoyed grunt and glared over at his computer table that was just barely out of reach of the bed.

Then, to prove that yes, the universe was indeed laughing at Danny, Stiles just moved the laptop off of the teen’s lap, easily slipped a knee between his thighs while also bracing a hand on Danny’s shoulder to steady himself (didn’t want to end up ass over tea kettle on the floor, Danny supposed), and then  _stretched_  towards the desk and the missing pile of papers.

And this? How was this even his  _life_??

He let his head fall back, thunking it against the bedroom wall, and finally gave everything up as a lost cause when Stiles managed to do what had probably been his destiny from the moment they had first met at the age of seven: Danny’s patience snapped.

“Stiles,  _can you not_.”

The other teen jumped a little, head turning a bit to stare at Danny with wide, shocked eyes. Danny had lost his temper and… Danny never lost his temper. Never. Not with anyone. In all of the years they had known each other, the other teen had always been the calmest and nicest guy Stiles had ever met—maybe why everybody liked Danny and probably somehow related to him being friends with Jackson. A magical power or, like, being able to soothe the savage beast. “…wh-what?”

Figuring that words weren’t needed by this point, the Hawaiian teen just gestured towards the bulge that his jeans stretched snugly (too tightly) over—where Stiles’ knee came too close to comfort and Danny could no longer mask the fact that he was fully hard with Stiles so temptingly close and body a taut, graceful line above him.

Of course, though, the amber-eyed teen didn’t do anything that Danny wouldn’t have expected (like maybe run for the hills): instead, eyes flicking down and perhaps going a little bit wider in surprise, Stiles nervously wet his lips and Danny had to resist the temptation to curse because his patience? Gone. All gone. And this entire scenario was incredibly unfair.

"You said that I wasn’t attractive to gay guys.”

His life, what even. Danny snorted softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, because  _all gay guys_ have a certain type, Stiles. Seriously, you need to sometimes think about just what comes out of your mouth and how it comes across as,” he pointed out, and Stiles grimaced slightly in agreement because—okay, asking that made him seem more than a bit of an stereotyping asshole and… he knew better than that. “So I don’t know about  _all_ gay guys, but you are attractive to  _one_.”

He let that sink in for a moment with Stiles blinking down at him slowly, brain probably short-circuiting from shock, and it was both equally entertaining and sad just how off kilter the other teen seemed now that he knew that Danny found him attractive, was attracted  _to_  him. There was another long, lingering moment of silence, one that stretched out to the point where Danny began to regret actually telling Stiles the truth—but before that wish could fully materialize, the teen stilled completely, though his whiskey gaze sharpened to a razor sharp focus on Danny.

That… was different, having Stiles so  _still_ , and Danny had never before realized just how much energy, how much movement, the other still gave off even  _with_  the medication until everything when startling, abruptly frozen—and Stiles took on this intensity that made Danny throb with  _want_.

“I’m gonna kiss you, okay?” Stiles murmured softly, the pad of his thumb brushing over the plush line of Danny’s lower lip, and he knew his swallow was audible. Didn’t need to have to voice his agreement, just nodded because then maybe the intensity would lessen, ease back a little—

Instead, it just made things worse.

Stiles brushed his mouth over Danny’s, soft and slow and chaste, and it wasn’t fair  _at all_  when the infuriating asshole was born with a mouth that was  _made_  for porn. But Stiles kept the kiss purposefully chaste even as he shifted atop Danny so that he was straddling over the goalie’s hips instead of having a knee so dangerously close to the other teen’s groin, and it was both a relief to have Stiles in a new position and a loss of the previous one—but, regardless, nothing could stop Danny from looping his arms around Stiles’ waist and bracketing his hands along the long, lanky line of the other’s spine.

Didn’t want to push too many boundaries with the newness of his (unintentional) confession and with not knowing just  _how much_  experience Stiles actually had: knew that the other teen was a virgin, sure, had proclaimed it for everyone to hear, but there was a huge difference from having only had a couple of quick, stolen kisses to having done everything  _but_  actual sex.

—all concern about respecting boundaries and going at a comfortable, set pace flew out the window, however, when Stiles actually  _growled_  into the kiss and gently caught Danny’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging lightly before releasing it so that he could deepen the kiss with a greedy, clever flick of his tongue and— _oh_. Stiles was  _such_  a talented kisser, languidly exploring Danny’s mouth even as he arched up to return the same, teeth scraping playfully enough to sting and to made the want burn  _hotter_ , and Danny had never expected to hear the shivery little sounds of pleasure that Stiles managed to coax from him each time they parted for breath. Over and over again, until the Hawaiian teen knew that his mouth was bruised and full and he knew what the sound of Stiles’ moan tasted like as the other traced just the barest tip of his tongue over Danny’s teeth.

And maybe things would have stayed into the heavy kissing realm—because Danny was an honestly nice guy and he’d like to try something more than just a one time thing with Stiles, had for a while—but the freckle-covered teen rather ruined all good intentions by tugging Danny’s shirt out of his pants to smooth his palms over a well-muscled stomach. 

“Your  _abs_. How are they even  _real_?! I swear to God they’re airbrushed,” Stiles complained against the edge of Danny’s jawline before sealing his mouth over tanned skin to leave behind a visible hickey, and  _of course_  Stiles had an oral fixation—Danny should have seen that one coming a mile away.

"Are you actually  _complaining_  about my abs? Because you would be the first. How are  _you_  even real??” Danny shot right back even as he tilted his head back while the other boy scraped his teeth along the bared, solid line of the tendon that ran along the line of his throat. And he should feel vulnerable like this, but with Stiles’ pale, long-fingered hands digging into the flesh over Danny’s ribs, flexing almost cat-like in a kneading motion before caressing and exploring warm skin—he couldn’t bring himself to really care. At all.

A laugh was huffed against his throat, breath damp as it brushed over sensitive skin, and Danny knew that he was going to be insane by night’s end. Certifiably insane, driven to sanity’s edge by Stiles himself. “Nope, no complaints. All mine now~ Can’t wait to get my mouth all over ‘em.”

The visual that came with that—as well as the shit eating grin that the teen tossed his way when Danny glanced down, eyebrows raised—brought static to his ears, a crackling din that drowned out everything else. And Stiles finally, finally found Danny’s tipping point: hands leaving G-rated zones, he cupped his palms over the curve of Stiles’ ass, fingers digging in possessively, and Danny dragged him down even as his own hips arched upwards because—God, friction,  _please_.

If anything, the move just made Stiles smile that much wider, and he glanced sidelong at Danny. “Have I really accidentally kept you on edge that long?” he asked and, that asshole, there was actually  _glee_  in his voice. Frowning at the other boy, Danny opened his mouth to reply but Stiles slowly rolled his hips down and against him and everything could be forgiven this one time.

"I’m sorry, but—please, Stiles, can I—?” Danny asked, hoping that he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt, too hard and with fire licking through his veins as the warm scent of the other teen has settled in over the course of the night. Comfortable and easy and sarcastic and always touching with those ridiculous hands of his, and Danny’s desire burned low and constant and lava hot. Stiles  _was_  attractive—so much more than that—and by the time everyone else realized that, it’d be too late because Danny had gotten there first and he wasn’t letting go. He’d waited too long, patience stretched thin and finally broken:

And soothed, as well, with Stiles’ hand lightly wrapped around his throat, tilting Danny’s head upwards even as his fingers gently stroked over thin skin—“Yeah, yeah; I want you to, let me watch you, Danny, let me see you fall apart.”—and how was that even supposed to be considered  _fair_?

It didn’t really matter, though, because as soon as Danny’s eyes met Stiles’, the lanky teen’s hips started to rock down to offer Danny the friction that he had begged-asked-demanded-taken for himself; it wasn’t completely smooth, not in the beginning, and there was a sharp spike of unexpected possessiveness at the realization that this was the first time that Stiles was doing something like this with  _anyone_. And Danny had always had a ‘no virgins’ rule set, usually for a variety of reasons, but Stiles had always been the type to blissfully walk on past laws and rules and signs that other, normal people typically obeyed—and Danny actually rather liked the thought of claiming and keeping the rest of the teen’s firsts.

Fingers flexing over Stiles’ ass, dragging him closer still, the amber-eyed teen blinked and met Danny’s gaze yet again, never once breaking eye contact: shuddering suddenly, as if able to read Danny’s eventual intent: and there was something attractive about the way that Stiles’ long fingers stroked over Danny’s throat, caressing so carefully even as his hips once more began to roll. Over and over again, stuttering awkwardly in the beginning as the teen tried to find a rhythm—and, gasp of surprise unexpected paired with Stiles’ shit-eating grin, it became obvious enough that the teen managed to catch on. The motion of his hips was a languid, idle roll; taking his time even as he drove Danny closer and closer to orgasm with each lazy thrust of his hips—and it was such a smooth, natural almost constant arch, back bowing each time their groins connected—

And the visual came, of Stiles nude and comfortable and confident in his own skin, grin wide and eyes nearly gold with mischief, riding Danny for what might as well have been hours as he kept the teen on the edge of orgasm—purposefully drawing things out, letting Danny get so close, so close, and then easing him back so that they could start all over again. Or perhaps a second image, this with Stiles topping: hips thrusting just as languidly as they were now and with Danny offering all sorts of threats to get him to  _hurry the hell up, Stiles, I’m serious_ —Stiles just laughing brightly in response and not bothering to quicken his pace at all (because no matter the time or the age, Danny sincerely doubted that the other teen would ever change), but offered words of encouragement and praise, husked against Danny’s skin until he finally came ages later, orgasm strong enough that his vision whitened—

He shuddered and gasped for air, and  _of course_  that was when Stiles rocked down, rough and hard and  _perfect_ , and whispered against Danny’s ear, “Want you to come  _now_ , Danny.” Another gasp, a cut-off moan—broken and hungry and wanting this and more and  _Stiles_ —and Danny’s back curved up in a taut arch, graceful and tight and needing to get closer still even as he was helpless against the other teen’s quiet command.

He came.

Fingers tangled tight in Stiles’ clothes, he dragged the other teen down with him when Danny slumped back against the pillows and sheets, breathing a bit quicker, sticky with sweat and other things and knowing that he’d soon enough be wishing for another change of clothes (but not yet at that point)—and Danny just pressed his forehead to the exposed bit of Stiles’ collarbone even as he tangled his fingers through the other boy’s thick brown hair.

“…so am I eventually going to find out what illegal favors I’m doing for you, or is this boyfriend going to leave me in the dark just like my ex and best friend?”

He could tell that he had surprised Stiles (for what part, he didn’t know; maybe all of the above—and it was rather satisfying, knowing that Danny could take Stiles off guard just as often as Stiles returned the favor), but eventually the other teen huffed a laugh and buried his nose into the short hair at the other’s temple. “…werewolves.”

Danny blinked.

That… actually made a fair amount of sense.


	51. “Come put those fingers to good use.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Mysenia prompted:](http://mysenia.tumblr.com/post/167217386350/dialogue-prompt-come-put-those-fingers-to-good) “Come put those fingers to good use.”
> 
>  
> 
> [Went wth Teen Wolf/MCU crossover.]

“Uhhh… are you sure that this is a good idea?” Stiles asked in return, gaze shifting back and forth between his own hands and the arc reactor that Tony was holding towards him, dark gaze expectant. “I mean, seriously, though, Dr. Stark.  _Anyone else_  would be more qualified than I am. Ms. Potts is just three floors up. Dr. Banner’s also currently in his lab--a lab that’s right next door!”

Tony opened his mouth then, perhaps to offer some sort of reassurance to the nineteen year-old or--more than likely--to tell the university student turned intern turned PA to suck it up and help him before he went into cardiac arrest; but, before he could actually _get_ anywhere, Stiles just steamrolled over the genius in a way that was becoming rather familiar.

“No, seriously, though.  _Seriously_. DUM-E has more qualifications than I do to help with this!” the teen stated with a sort of frentic energy, gesticulating wildly towards the ‘bot who immediately perked up at the thought of getting to ‘assist’ with anything more complicated than preparing a green smoothie (that tended to be more motor oil than veggies, regardless).

(The engineer had also taken a more conservative stance in this particular instance and, thankfully, DUM-E would not find a fire extinguisher anywhere in the vicinity should the learning AI actually actively try to  _help_.)

“Stiles!  _Stiles_ ,” Tony began, then repeated himself even louder, reaching out to still the other’s jerkily waving arms--his own fingers closing around the solid weight of Stiles’ forearm even as Iron Man’s pilot caught the teen’s gaze and held it.

There was nothing but a quiet sort of confidence in Tony Stark’s too-clear eyes, shades of brown flaring with an expectant sort of knowledge while his heart and mind painted emotions for all the world to see in this particular set of windows: soul a starburst of light and burning hotter than a supernova’s core--

And Stiles _knew_ what lengths he would go to protect that particular  _spark_.

The teen quieted and swallowed, fingers curling in towards his palm while Tony tugged him closer, settling the new arc reactor’s weight against the palm of the boy's hand even as the engineer reached up to carefully twist and release the seals that pressed the older arc reactor model snug to his chest.

“I trust you,” the inventor promised, voice steady.

\--so Stiles tightened his hold on the arc reactor and took another step forward to help with the removal of the old, eyes a bit too wide and head a bit too light: but, still, firm in his response when he finally whispered:

“…okay.”


	52. Peter + Trolling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [thisdiscontentedwinter](http://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com/) got an Ask that said: _The Hales celebrated the german tradition of exchanging their presents on the eve of the 24th (Christmas Eve). They do so because the 25th is Dereks birthday. His siblings don't mind because Santa comes early to their house while all their freinds have to wait a whole night. (Peter thinks that they should've had Christmas babys sooner if it means he gets his presents earlier and can sleep in the next day.)_ (for DW's Teen Wolf Holiday Headcanons)
> 
> In response, DW said: _Awww! That’s adorable!_
> 
> _And then he spends the day wandering around the house in his dressing gown proclaiming, “Today is a sacred day. Today we celebrate the birth of… DEREK!”_
> 
> _It’s funny when Derek is little._
> 
> _It’s less funny every year after that._
> 
> _Peter keeps doing it anyway._
> 
> ...I couldn't help with the rest. XD;;

Talia remembered the day in high school when Peter had announced that he was joining the drama club. Her parents had been fully supportive of Peter’s endeavor–the Alpha remembered hearing her mother mutter about ‘creative outlets’ and ‘directing the energy elsewhere’ to her father late one night–but, as Talia knew it would, it ended up backfiring on all of the Hales.

If anything, Peter’s participation in the theater group made his tendencies towards dramatics  _that much worse_ –and it carried on for the rest of high school and all through college, to the point that Talia resigned herself to the fact that the obnoxiousness that seemed to come with all little brothers had an added (unnecessary and unwanted)  _flair_  with this particular one.

Even though the Hale head had long ago stopped believing in Santa Claus, it was still tempting to beg the local Mall Santa to take this gift back, ‘no return policy’ be damned. And Peter? Well… Peter was certainly a gift that kept on giving. Case in point:

“Today is a sacred day. Today is the birth of… DEREK!” Peter called out as he made his way up and down the corridors of the Hale pack household, swanning about in his dressing gown like he was a herald of old, purposefully pitching his voice in such a way that it would carry throughout the entire home: location didn’t matter, not when Peter wanted to make sure that he was  _heard_.

“…Jesus Christ,” the Alpha muttered and rubbed her forehead with a claw-tipped finger, wanting nothing more than to gouge her brother’s voicebox out. True, Peter’s hear-ye-hear-ye had been funny the first year or two of Derek’s birthday.

But her son was turning  _fourteen_  this year.

And then, of course, there was–

“DEREK’S BIRTH!  _TODAY_  IS  _DEREK’S BIRTH_!” Cora’s best friend, Stiles Stilinski, called out as he trippingly followed after Peter, gathering the hem of his ‘favorite uncle’s’ extra dressing gown in his arms and somehow reaching volumes that not even Peter had ever been able to achieve–even  _with_  his performance training.

Peter was such a  _troll_.


End file.
